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ouxs.u  'r i"  ii Li: 


PAUL  AKDENHEIM, 

THE  MONK  OF  WISSAH1K0N. 


BY  GEORGE  LIPPAKD. 


AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  QUAKER  CITY,     "  ROSE  OF  EPHRATA,      "  WASHINGTON 
AND  HIS  GENERALS,  OR  LEGENDS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION,"  "LEGENDS 
OF  MEXICO,"  "ELANCHE  OF  BRANDYWINE,"  "LADYE  ANNABEL," 
"  ROSE  OF  WISSAHIKON,"  "  THE    NAZARENE,  OR   LAST  OF 
THE    WASHINGTONS,"  "  HERBERT    TRACY,"    &C.,  &C. 


"These  Legend9  of  the  olden  time,  have  for  the  heart,  a  voice  as  stern  and  beautiful,  as  the  sad 
tones  from  the  lips  of  the  dying.  It  is  true,  they  were  very  superstitious,  these  early  settlers  of 
Pennsylvania— believed  somewhat  fervently  in  astrology,  magic,  witchcraft,— were  imbued  with  all 
the  mysticism  of  their  Fatherland— and  yet  with  it  alJ,  they  had  an  unyielding  hope  in  Man,  a  child- 
like faith  in  God."  Mss.  Memoirs  of  the  Revolution 


T.  B.  PETERSON,  No.  98  CHESNUT  STREET, 

ONE  DOOR  ABOVE  THIRD. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848,  by 

T.  B.  PETERSON, 

in- the  office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


Stereotyped  by  R.  P.  Mogridge. 


TO  MY  SISTER, 

HARRIET   NEWELL  LIBPARD. 

With  the  hope  that  some  portion  of  the  purity  and  truth  of  your  nature,  may  be 
found  embodied  in  these  pages,  in  the  character  of  Catharine  Ardenheim,  I  dedicate 
this  book  to  you.  I  might  inscribe  upon  this  page  some  name  indicative  of  worldly 
power,  and  worldly  wealth,  but  there  is  no  power  beneath  Heaven  like  that  which 
derives  its  impulses  from  a  Sister's  Counsels — there  is  no  wealth  than  can  compare 
for  a  moment,  with  the  priceless  treasure  of  a  Sister's  Love. 

When  your  eye  for  the  first  time  rests  upon  this  page — when  you  discover  that 
without  your  permission  or  knowledge,  I  have  written  your  name  at  the  head  of 
these  lines — I  beseech  to  regard  the  act  as  a  word  of  blessing  from  a  Brother  to  a 
Sister.  Regard  it  thus,  and  at  the  same  time  accept  it  as  a  memorial  of  the  years 
of  Orphanage  we  have  spent  together.  It  is  true,  that  with  but  a  few  exceptions, 
the  name  we  bear,  is  only  borne  by  those  who  sleep  their  last  in  the  silence  of  the 
grave.  I  write  your  dame, — here — upon  my  book — and  ask  you  to  remember  the 
days  when  all  was  dark  with  me ;  when  my  name  was  uttered  with  the  hiss  of 
calumniation,  and  my  life  poisoned  by  every  slander  that  malice  could  invent,  or 
falsehood  enunciate ;  but,  when  my  Sister,  scarcely  more  than  a  Child  in  years, 
.vas  my  friend — almost  the  only  friend  I  had  on  the  earth  of  God — when  she  stood 
by  me,  with  the  counsels  of  a  Sister's  Love,  and  said  in  face  of  cloud  and  danger 
— "  Brother  !    God-speed  !" 

GEORGE  LIPPARD. 


PROLOGUE. 

The  author  was  aided  in  the  preparation  of  this  work,  by  a  series  of 
papers,  letters,  and  other  MSS.  relating  to  the  events  and  men  of  our 
Revolution,  and  especially  to  certain  incidents,  connected  with  the  Wissa- 
hikon,  near  Philadelphia.  The  incidents  detailed  in  the  MSS.  were  of  a 
remarkable  and  various  character ;  presenting  at  one  view,  a  picture  of  the 
home-life,  the  battles,  and  superstitions  of  olden  time.  Some  portions  of 
the  MSS.  were  written  in  a  cipher,  not  only  difficult,  but  utterly  untrans- 
latable, at  least,  without  a  key.  As  the  pages  in  cipher  occurred  in  the 
most  interesting  points  of  the  narrative,  and  seemed  from  the  context  to 
picture  not  only  events  which  took  place  in  '75,  '77  and  '78  on  the  Wis- 
sahikon,  but  also  events  of  other  lands,  and  of  distant  centuries,  the  author 
was  exceedingly  anxious  to  discover  the  key  to  this  secret  writing.  The 

3 


4  PROLOGUE. 

reader  will  appreciate  the  difficulty  when  he  beholds  a  specimen  of  the 
untranslatable  Cipher :  or,  perhaps,  Cryptograph  would  be  a  better  word. 


At  first  sight,  this  of  course,  looked  like  nothing  but  a  scrawl,  without 
object  or  meaning,  but  as  entire  pages  were  written  in  the  same  manner — 
as  there  seemed  to  be  something  like  system,  in  the  very  irregularity  of 
the  lines  and  their  angles, — curiosity  was  excited,  and  the  most  strenuous 
exertions  made  to  discover  the  meaning  of  some  particular  part,  and  thus 
construct  a  key  for  the  whole.  After  much  effort,  the  characters  given 
above  were  discovered  to  represent  the  word — "  Mount  Sepulchre." 
The  translation  of  the  Cipher  was  then  accomplished  without  much  diffi- 
cult .  The  passage  in  which  the  word  "  Mount  Sepulchre"  occured  was 
first  translated ;  and  the  author  discovered  that  it  was  a  quotation  from 
some  unknown  Manuscript,  entitled  "  the  Manuscript  of  the  Sealed 
Chamber,"  written  by  a  Monk,  in  the  Reign  of  the  Eighth  Henry,  and 
connected  with  the  events  of  the  Wissahikon,  by  a  thread  of  peculiar  and 
important  incidents. 

The  first  passage  translated  from  the  Cipher  was  in  substance  as 
follows  : 


PROLOGUE.  5 

"  In  order  that  these  things  which  appear  to  you  so  strange,  may  be  in 
some  measure  accounted  for,  I  subjoin  a  passage  from  the  Manuscript  or 
the  Sealed  Chamber  (written  as  you  know  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII., 
by  Prior  Eustace)  which  connects  the  incidents  of  the  present  history, 
with  an  almost  incredible  tragedy,  which  happened  more  than  two  hun- 
dred years  ago." 

Then  followed  the  passage  from  the  MSS.  of  the  Sealed  Chamber, 
which  is  subjoined  with  some  modifications  of  style,  language,  etc.  although 
the  Spirit  of  the  Original  is  preserved. 

"  MOUNT  SEPULCHRE." 

i*.  You  cannot  picture  to  yourself  a  nobler  image  of  Feudal  grandeur,  than 
that  which  was  embodied  in  the  Castle  of  Mount  Sepulchre. 

(Even  I  that  write  these  words,  '  Father  Eustace'  once,  and  4  Prior  of 
the  Monastery,'  near  the  Castle,  but  now  plain  Eustace  Brynne,  even  I, 
that  know  so  well  the  terrible  deeds  enacted  in  the  Castle,  can  scarce 
believe  that  a  scene  so  fair  to  the  eye,  was  ever  made  the  theatre  of  such 
unnatural  crimes.) 

The  traveller  who  might  chance  to  journey  through  the  woods  of  York- 
shire, suddenly  emerged  from  the  shadows,  and  stood  upon  a  rock  which 
overhung  a  magnificent  prospect  of  woods,  and  hills,  and  valleys,  with 
tranquil  waters  gleaming  here  and  there,  like  the  shattered  fragments  of  a 
great  mirror  framed  in  emerald. 

And  in  the  midst  of  this  prospect,  nay,  in  the  very  foreground,  arose 
the  grand  old  castle  of  Mount  Sepulchre. 

A  massive  hill  rose  suddenly  from  the  bosom  of  a  forest.  It  was  a 
wide  forest,  full  of  oaken  trees,  whose  woven  branches  shut  out  the  sun, 
and  invested  the  turf  with  a  rich  twilight  shadow.  It  was  a  wide  forest, 
and,  yet  standing  upon  the  jutting  rock,  you  might  behold  a  wide  expanse 
of  green  meadows,  and  luxuriant  orchards,  abrupt  hills  and  vallies  threaded 
by  silver  streams  stretching  beyond  the  limits  of  this  forest  to  the  far  dis- 
tant horizon.  Then,  there  were  mansions  too,  breaking  suddenly  upon 
the  sight — here  a  fortified  grange  standing  amid  oaken  trees  on  the  summit 
of  a  gentle  hill,  there  a  farm-house,  lifting  its  gray  walls  from  orchard 
trees,  and  on  the  slope  of  some  meadow  dotted  with  sleek  cattle,  the 
sombre  towers  of  a  Monastery,  rushed  suddenly  on  the  view. 

But,  in  the  midst  of  this  varied  and  beautiful  prospect — the  noblest  thing 
which  met  the  eye — arose  the  old  Castle  of  Mount  Sepulchre.  * 

It  stood  alone  on  the  summit  of  that  broad  hill  which  arose  from  the 
bosom  of  the  forest.  It  was  a  strange  structure  presenting  at  once  to 
your  sight  massive  walls,  and  lofty  towers  ;  here  a  slender  pillar  like  the 
minaret  of  a  Pagan  Mosque,  pierced  the  blue  sky,  with  its  banner  of 
white,  and  gold  floating  into  Heaven,  and  there  a  huge  mass  of  dark  stone 
rose  in  the  sunlight,  with  the  green  vines  trailing  about  its  windows,  and 
flowers  fluttering  from  its  gloomy  parapet. 


6 


PROLOGUE. 


In  fact,  the  Castle  of  Mount  Sepulchre  presented  at  a  glance,  a  gor- 
geous combination  of  Gothic  and  Oriental  Architecture.  As  you  gazed 
upon  it  from  the  jutting  crag,  it  seemed  as  though  the  spirits  of  the  East- 
ern and  the  Western  world  had  met  in  this  beautiful  valley  of  England, 
and  reared  this  magnificent  pile,  as  a  trophy  of  their  combined  skill. 

Many  ages  ago — when  the  third  Richard  was  in  the  land — this  Castle 
was  only  a  stern  image  of  dark  stone,  with  four  rude  towers  rising  into 
heaven,  and  cell-like  windows  indenting  the  surface  of  its  sombre  walls. 

Then,  a  solid  wall  encircled  the  base  of  the  hill,  with  a  gate  rising  to 
the  west,  and  beyond  this  wall  a  wide  and  deep  moat,  seperated  the  hill 
from  the  surrounding  woods. 

But  the  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre  followed  King  Richard,  the  Lion 
Heart  to  the  wars  of  Palestine,  and  were  thousands  only  fought  to  win 
a  grave,  he  fought  and  won  more  fame,  more  titles  and  more  gold. 

Therefore  returning  from  the  holy  wars,  he  added  new  lands  to  the  do- 
main of  the  Castle.  He  hung  around  its  gloomy  walls  the  fantastic 
glories  of  Oriental  architecture,  and  between  the  sombre  walls  Pagan 
minarets  arose,  and  where  had  been  dark  courts  paved  with  unsightly 
stone,  new  gardens  bloomed,  their  flowers  and  foliage  fluttering  about  the 
old  castle,  like  rich  drapery  around  a  rugged  warrior's  breast. 

This  Lord  of  the  day  of  Richard,  the  Lion- Heart,  even  changed  the 
name  of  the  castle  :  it  had  been  called  by  the  rude  Gothic  name  of  his 
ancestors,  but  in  memory  of  the  Holy  wars,- — perchance  in  memory  of 
the  Sacred  Tomb  of  Christ — he  called  it  Mount  Sepulchre. 

And  so,  as  you  see  it  now  in  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  our 
glorious  King,  he  left  the  Castle  to  his  heir,  and  lies  buried  in  a  Chapel 
somewhere  amid  the  mazes  of  yonder  Castle,  a  Chapel  which  resembles 
a  Pagan  Mosque,  with  its  mosaic  pavement,  its  swelling  dome,  and 
quaintly  fashioned  lamps,  even  burning  over  altars  of  sculptured  marble. 

We  will  stand  upon  this  jutting  rock,  and  trace  the  features  of  this 
Castle  by  the  light  of  the  summer  day. 

It  crowns  the  summit  of  the  hill,  with  its  towers  and  pillars  gleaming 
in  the  sun. 

The  base  of  the  hill  is  still  encircled  by  a  heavy  wall,  but  that  wall  is 
adorned  with  towers,  and  two  massive  pillars  crowned  by  long  and  taper- 
ing spires,  mark  the  position  of  the  castle  gate. 
t  Beyond  this  wall,  which  encircles  a  space  of  twenty  acres  or  more,  in 
fact,  girdles  the  entire  hill,  there  is  no  longer  an  unsightly  moat  filled  with 
stagnant  water,  but  a  stream  of  silver,  which  flows  from  the  woods  in  the 
west,  winds  arounfl  the  wall  like  a  belt  of  shining  silver  beside  a  belt  of 
iron,  and  then  disappears  in  the  woods  toward  the  east 

The  space  between  the  castle  on  top  of  the  hill,  and  the  wall  at  its 
base,  is  diversified  with  gardens,  divided  by  walks  fantastically  arranged, 
and  adorned  with  shrubbery  and  flowers  of  almost  every  clime.    It  seems 


PROLOGUE. 


7 


indeed,  like  a  garden  stolen  by  some  enchanter  from  the  valley  of  the 
Arno,  and  set  down  on  English  soil  amid  the  scenes  of  Yorkshire. 

The  Baron  of  Mount  Sepulchre  can  gaze  from  the  loftiest  tower  of  his 
Castle,  and  turn  his  eyes  to  the  east,  to  the  west,  to  the  north,  and  to  the 
south,  exclaiming  as  he  turns,  *«  This — and  this — all  that  I  behold  is  mine  !" 

For  he  is  a  powerful  lord,  high  in  favor  with  our  Sovereign  Lord, 
Henry  the  Eighth,  who  the  other  day  sat  aside  his  Spanish  Queen,  and 
took  to  his  arms  a  New  Queen,  in  the  person  of  the  witching  maidenj 
Anne  Boleyn.  It  will  be  remembered  that  at  the  same  time,  he  took  to 
his  bed  a  New  Queen,  he  also  took  to  his  Altar  a  new  Religion.  He  set 
aside  the  Pope,  and  now  reigns  at  once  Pope  and  King,  with  the  power 
to  set  aside  as  many  queens  and  religions  as  it  shall  please  his  dread 
Majesty. 

The  Lord  Harry  Mount  Sepulchre  of  Mount  Sepulchre  is  not  only  a 
powerful  Lord,  but  he  is  young,  gallant  and  fair  to  look  upon.  Only 
twenty-four  years  of  age,  with  a  form  of  iron  and  a  fair  face,  shaded  by 
golden  hair,  he  can  wield  a  sword,  back  a  steed,  or  win  a  peasant  maid,, 
with  any  Lord  in  Christendom. 

He  is  the  Last  of  his  Race — the  last  of  the  Mount  Sepulchres,  and  yet» 
he  has  taken  no  bride  to  his  lordly  bed-  Rich  with  the  possessions  of  his 
race,  richer  with  the  gifts  and  favor  of  the  King,  he  cares  not  to  load  his 
young  heart  with  the  chains  of  wedlock,  or  darken  his  gay  bachelor  life 
with  the  frown  of  some  jealous  dame. 

Would  I  might  pierce  the  castle  walls,  and  show  him  to  you  as  he  sits 
at  the  head  of  the  well-loaded  board,  goblet  in  hand,  with  the  faces  of 
some  score  of  gay  lords  like  himself  echoing  his  merry  jests,  and  copying 
his  courtly  smiles. 

He  is  the  last  of  his  race,  and  yet,  his  father  the  old  Lord  is  not  dead. 
In  yonder  gloomy  tower,  which  seperates  itself  from  the  body  of  the 
castle,  and  mocks  the  glad  summer  with  its  sullen  grandeur,  sits  an  old 
man,  very  old,  in  faith,  with  the  snows  of  ninety  winters  upon  his  white 
beard. 

Many  years  ago  he  was  stricken  at  once  with  palsy,  and  with  blind- 
ness. It  was  soon  after  his  eldest  son,  a  dark-haired  boy,  who  loved  the 
book  better  than  the  sword,  and  the  air  of  the  woods  better  than  the  per- 
fumed atmosphere  of  the  Count, — left  the  Castle  suddenly  for  other  lands, 
without  once  bidding  Lord  Hubert  farewell. 

For  many  years  the  old  man  awaited  the  return  of  his  Son.  He  had 
heard  of  him  from  various  parts  of  Europe,  now  from  Hungary,  now  from 
Italy,  and  again  from  Spain.  But,  the  eldest  son  never  returned.  He 
was  a  wanderer  upon  the  face  of  the  earth  ;  the  old  Baron  knew  not 
wherefore,  but  sat  looking  day  after  day  from  the  tower  of  his  castle, 
turning  his  eyes  to  every  quarter  of  the  horizon,  in  the  hope  to  behold 
his  returning  Son. 


c 


"  When  Ranulph  of  Mount  Sepulchre  returns,  and  takes  upon  himself 
the  sway  of  the  Castle  and  its  domains,  then  I  can  die  in  peace." 
Ranulph  was  the  name  of  his  dark-haired  Son. 

Long  the  old  man  waited — not  a  day  shone,  but  found  him  in  the  tower 
waiting  for  his  eldest  born.    But  Ranulph  never  came. 

One  day  there  came  a  messenger  with  a  letter,  which  enclosed  a  lock 
of  hair.  It  was  dark  hair,  with  a  thread  of  silver  turned  among  its  black- 
ness. The  old  Baron  looked  upon  the  lock  of  hair,  read  the  letter  and 
knew  that  his  eldest  born  was  dead.  Ranulph  had  been  killed  in  a  duel 
in  Florence — his  ashes  slept  beside  the  Arno. 

Blindness  smote  the  old  man's  eyeballs,  palsy  withered  his  limbs — he 
sits  even  now,  mourning  in  the  old  tower,  his  white  beard  descending  ' 
over  his  gaunt  chest — he  sits  alone  with  his  blindness,  his  disease  and  his 
ninety  years,  while  his  gay  Son,  Lord  Harry  Mount  Sepulchre  holds  high 
festival  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle. 

It  will  be  remembered,  that  in  consequence  of  the  age,  the  blindness — 
shall  I  say  idiocy — of  the  old  Baron,  Lord  Harry  had  been  invested  with 
all  his  rights  and  powers  as  Supreme  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre,  even  be- 
fore his  father  was  dead.  This  had  been  done  by  our  gracious  Lord 
King  Henry,  who  having  power  to  set  aside  queens  and  religions  at  his 
oleasure,  certainly  has  the  right  to  invest  an  heir  with  all  that  pertains  to 
Lordship,  even  before  the  old  man  his  father  is  gathered  into  the  grave 
vault. 

And  merry  are  the  days  of  the  young  Lord  in  his  castle,  and  joyous 
are  his  nights ;  care  comes  riot  to  chill  his  ardent  heart,  neither  can  the 
anger  of  living  man  make  his  soul  afraid. 

He  spends  his  days  and  nights  bravely  with  his  redoubted  Twenty- 
Four. 

His  redoubted  Twenty-Four  !  Yes,  for  he  hath  gathered  to  himself, 
from  country  and  from  Court,  nay,  even  from  lands  beyond  the  Sea, 
Twenty-Four  noble  Knights,  who  know  no  altar  but  a  well-filled  table, 
no  God  save  a  brimming  Cup.  They  share  his  gold,  they  partake  of  his 
pleasures  ;  when  he  wiles  some  buxom  peasant  maid  with  his  dainty 
tongue  they  laugh,  and  when  he  points  to  them  a  man  who  hath  done 
him  wrong — they  kill. 

A  merry  time  they  have  together,  Lord  Harry  and  his  Twenty-Four. 
By  day  they  hunt  over  hill  and  plain,  with  mettled  steeds  and  baying 
hounds  ;  at  night  the  wine-cup  and  the  board,  with  now  and  then  a  plea- 
sure, that  might  suit  the  luxurious  gloom  of  an  Eastern  Seraglio,  but  does 
not  befit  a  page  like  mine  to  tell. 

Oftentimes  at  dead  of  night  they  issue  forth  from  the  castle  gates, 
mounted  on  fiery  steeds  and  with  torches  in  their  hands,  go  thundering 
through  the  silent  country,  like  so  many  devils  on  devils'  steeds. 

The  peasant  sleeping  on  his  rude  cot  after  the  hard  day's  toil,  starts  up 


PROLOGUE.  9 

at  the  sound  of  their  horses  tramp,  but  ere  he  can  look  from  his  window 
they  are  gone.  Now  and  then,  a  knight  madder  than  the  rest,  flings 
his  blazing  torch  into  some  farmer's  hayrick,  and  the  band  go  dashing 
and  tramping  on  their  way,  by  a  light  more  vivid  than  the  sun.  Then, 
how  their  shouts  echo  through  the  woods  as  the  hayrick  fires  the  farmer's 
home,  and  forces  the  rude  peasant  and  his  dame,  with  the  little  child  upon 
her  bosom,  from  their  slumbers  ! 

•  O,  they  are  in  faith,  a  merry  band,  Lord  Harry  and  his  brave  Twenty-Four. 

In  the  depths  of  the  wood,  not  far  from  the  castle  hill,  stands  a  gloomy 
fabric,  whose  dismantled  walls  makes  the  wayfarer  turn  aside,  even  by 
the  light  of  day,  and  grow  cold  with  fear  at  dead  of  night. 

This  deserted  fabric  was  not  long  ago  a  Monastery  tenanted  by  an  idle 
swarm  of  monks  and  nuns,  but,  our  Lord  King  Henry  took  a  new  wife, 
and  a  new  Religion,  and  therefore  our  Lord  Baron  Harry  went  forth  not 

long  ago,  near  the  break  of  day,  and  but  'tis  a  long 

story,  and  I  have  not  time  to  tell  it  now. 

It  is  said  they  had  a  merry  time  scourging  the  affrighted  monks  through 
smoke  and  flame.  As  for  the  nuns,  some  were  old,  and  they  turned  them 
forth  upon  the  night  into  the  rude  world.  Some  were  young  and  fair  to 
look  upon,  and  the  brave  Twenty-Four  took  them  on  their  saddles  to  the 
castle,  and  

It  made  a  great  stir  among  the  peasants  of  the  Baron's  domain.  Some 
affrighted  ones  with  their  garments  torn,  and  the  marks  of  rude  hands 
upon  their  breasts  were  found,  after  a  lapse  of  three  or  four  days  wander- 
ing in  the  forests,  startling  the  stillness  with  their  ravings,  and  uttering  the 
name  of  Lord  Harry  coupled  with  curses. 

But  they  were  nuns. 

It  is  also  said  that  the  peasant  talks  in  low  tones  of  the  good  old  times, 
when  old  Baron  Hubert  held  the  sway,  and  his  dark-eyed  son  came  kind- 
ly to  their  cottages,  and  broke  bread  at  their  tables,  yes,  broke  bread  even 
with  these,  the  rude  peasant  people. 

There  is  a  prophecy  among  these  base  born  folks,  that  one  day  Lord 
Ranulph  will  return  and  unseat  his  younger  Brother  from  the  saddle,  and 
assume  the  rule  of  the  broad  domains  of  Mount  Sepulchre.  But  'tis  only 
a  vague  superstition  of  these  vassals,  who  are  born  for  the  good  pleasure 
of  such  Lords  as  the  brave  Harry,  and  such  Kings  as  the  high  and  mighty 
Henry,  the  Eighth  of  his  name,  sovereign  of  England  and  France,  De- 
fender of  the  Faith  and  Pope  of  the  New  Religion. 

The  sun  is  getting  low  in  the  heaven.  There  are  broad  shadows  over 
the  distant  fields,  and  the  base  of  the  castle  hill  is  lost  in  twilight,  while 
the  pillars  and  towers  far  above,  shine  through  the  clear  air  like  columns 
of  living  flame. 

We  will  descend  from  this  jutting  rock  which  overlooks  the  prospect, 
and  enter  the  grand  old  castle  of  Mount  Sepulchre. 


10 


PROLOGUE. 


To  night,  at  set  of  sun,  the  brave  Harry  and  his  bold  Twenty-Four  hold 
high  festival  in  the  Hall  of  Palestine.  1 

And  to-night,  Lord  Harry  leaves  the  wine-cup  to  visit  the  old  man,  who 
sits  blind  and  moaning  in  yonder  tower,  and  from  the  old  man's  cell  he 
goes  to  hold  communion  with  the  dark-visaged  Italian,  who  but  a  few  days 
since  came  to  Mount-Sepulchre  with  his  youthful  page.  'Tis  said  the 
Italian  is  a  Scholar — poor — and  therefore  a  Sorcerer.  As  for  his  page, 
'tis  said  that  but  our  history  will  tell  it.  all. 

Little  did  they  think,  even  Lord  Harry,  the  Italian  and  the  Page,  that 
the  sun  which  shone  so  brightly  over  Mount  Sepulchre  as  it  sunk  below 
the  horizon,  would  not  rise  again  until  the  Three  were  linked  together,  in 
a  Crime  that  makes  the  blood  grow  chill  but  to  remember. 

The  festival  begins  ;  let  us  enter  the  Castle  gate. 

Thus  reads  the  first  passage  of  the  MSS.  of  the  Sealed  Chamber.  The 
reader  will  find  the  Sequel  embodied  in  the  pages  of  the  present  work  ; 
in  connection  with  the  events  which  took  place  on  the  Wissahikon,  in  the 
years  '75,  '77  and  '78.  It  will  be  seen  that  so  far  as  our  history  is  con- 
cerned, a  chain  of  peculiar  incidents  connects  our  Revolution  with  the 
Reign  of  Henry  VIII,— the  Wissahikon  with  the  hills  of  Yorkshire. 

With  regard  to  "Paul  Ardenheim,  the  Monk  of  Wissahikon,"  not  a 
word  more  in  the  way  of  preface  is  necessary.  The  book  is  now  before 
the  reader ;  it  has  been  with  the  author  for  years,  always,  and  in  every 
stage  of  its  progress,  a  book  which  he  wrote  from  love  of  the  subject. 
That  subject  comprises  the  lights  and  the  shadows,  the  superstition  and 
the  heroisms  of  our  Past,  and  moreover  covers  ground  hitherto  untrodden 

 the  influence  which  the  German  mind  manifested  in  the  case  of  the 

early  settlers  has  exerted  upon  the  history  of  Pennsylvania,  and  the  cause 
of  human  progress. 

To  all  gentlemen  of  a  critical  turn,— especially  gentlemen  who  are 
witty  in  small  papers,  and  profound  in  fashion-plate  magazines — it  is  sim- 
ply necessary  to  say,  that  this  is  the  Most  Improbable  Book  in  the 
World.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  statement  on  the  part  of  the  author, 
will  be  perfectly  satisfactory,  to  all  those  gentlemen  whose  object  is  never  to 
read  a  book,  but  simply  to  misrepresent  its  contents,  and  bark  at  its  author. 

One  word  to  readers  of  a  different  kind — readers  who  are  willing  to 
read  a  book  with  something  of  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  written. 

A  Dream  has  been  lingering  about  my  heart  for  years — a  dream  whose 
lights  and  shadows,  strong  contrasts  and  deep  passions,  I  have  found  em- 
bodied, in  actual  form,  in  the  rocks  and  hills,  the  streamlet  and  the  gorge 
of  Wissahikon.  That  Dream  I  have  attempted  to  put  on  paper,  and  called 
it  "  Paul  Ardenheim." 


Wissahikon  Sep.  25,  1848. 


GEORGE  LIPPARD. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT. 


"I  will  send  a  Deliverer  to  this  land  of  the  New  World,  who  shall  save  my  peo;  le 
from  physical  bondage,  even  as  my.  Son  saved  them  from  the  bondage  of  spiritmi  death.*' 


(ii) 


CHAPTER  FIRST. 


THE  WARNING. 

Night  came  slowly  down  upon  the  wintry  scene,  as  the  travellers, 
turning  from  the  road,  entered  the  narrow  lane,  which  led  toward  the 
wood- hidden  stream. 

It  was  a  winter  evening,  sad  and  beautiful  as  a  pure  angel,  looking 
from  heaven  upon  the  crimes  and  agonies  of  Man. 

Do  you  behold  the  scene  ? 

Come — by  this  oaken  tree,  which  stands  beside  the  rude  fence,  built  of 
intermingled  timber  and  stone — we  will  stand  and  gaze  upon  the  valley, 
bathed  in  the  tender  solemnity  of  winter  twilight. 

There  is  snow  upon  these  hills  ;  a  white  mantle  glitters  like  a  shining 
shroud  over  the  valley.  The  western  sky  is  one  soft  mass  of  purple  and 
gold ;  it  glows  as  with  the  last  impassioned  kiss  of  day.  And  up,  into 
that  sky,  so  pure,  so  transparent  and  serene,  the  leafless  trees  raise  their 
dark  branches. 

Not  a  cloud  in  the  dome,  nothing  to  mar  that  vast  expanse  of  blue, 
blushing  into  gold.  The  very  air  is  full  of  rest,  a  deep  repose,  scarcely 
broken  by  a  slight  breeze — so  keen,  so  bitter  cold — which  seems  to  skim 
over  the  frozen  snow,  and  hover  near  it,  as  it  scatters  the  shining  particles 
in  the  light  of  the  darkening  day. 

The  lane  leads  through  the  valley,  winding  along  the  ridge,  above  the 
frozen  streamlet  in  the  east.  And  above  that  frozen  streamlet,  on  the 
knoll  which  towers  in  the  east,  the  dark  grey  walls  of  a  cluster  of  build- 
ings, grow  crimson  in  the  flush  of  the  western  sky.  Look  upon  them — 
are  they  not  beautiful  ?  A  rugged  farm-house,  seen  through  the  branches 
of  some  leafless  trees  ;  a  mill,  built  of  huge  logs,  with  the  icicles  glit- 
tering like  diamonds  on  its  motionless  wheel ;  a  corn-crib  with  the  golden 
ears  peeping  from  its  snow-white  bars. 

This  is  the  view  toward  the  east,  but  in  the  north,  the  course  of  the 
lane  is  lost  to  view,  amid  the  dark  mass  of  rocks  and  woods.  Do  not 
turn  your  eye  from  these  rocks  and  woods,  nor  pass  them  by  as  devoid 
of  interest,  for  they  shelter  the  Wissahikon.  1 

They  shroud  from  your  sight  that  stream,  which  bears  the  name  of  a 
love-maddened  Indian  girl,  who  buried  her  love  and  her  wrongs  in  its 
clear  waters.  By  those  strange  waters  we  will  discover  the  scenes — the 
men  and  the  women — of  this,  our  Solemn  History. 

(13) 


14  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

For  it  is  a  solemn  history,  telling  in  every  page  of  the  strong  agonies 
of  love,  fanaticism  and  madness  ;  now  gliding  in  the  solemn  chambers, 
where  a  secret  brotherhood  celebrate  their  rites,  and  passing  again  into 
the  cheerful  glow  of  an  olden  time  fire-side.  Think  not  that  it  is  a  his- 
tory of  my  own  production.  Think  not  that  I  have  but  sat  me  down, 
on  this  drear  winter  night,  to  tell  an  idle  romance,  to  coin  a  marvellous 
fable — no  !  I  but  write  again  the  dark  story  which  is  already  written,  on 
many  a  dusky  and  blotted  page — dusky  with  age,  and  blotted  with  tears. 

I  am  but  the  translator  of  that  dread  story,  which  has  been  recorded 
in  mystic  ciphers,  for  seventy  years.  It  is  my  task  to  give  the  ciphers, 
which  look  so  unmeaning  and  sometimes  appear  so  grotesque,  the  tongue 
and  language  of  e very-day  life.  And  when  the  shadows  of  this  history 
gloom  terribly  before  you,  and  its  phantoms  rouse  wild  and  contending  emo- 
tions in  your  hearts,  and  the  words  which  fall  from  their  weird  lips,  sound 
in  your  ears  like  the  words  of  the  dead,  do  not  too  harshly  blame,  I  beseech 
you,  the  wizard  craft  of  the  author,  who  has  only  invoked — not  created — 
these  Ghosts  of  the  Past. 

Along  this  valley,  at  the  hour  of  sunset,  on  the  last  day  of  the  year  of 
our  Lord,  1774,  two  travellers  took  their  way.  As  their  footsteps  broke 
the  frozen  snow,  their  faces  were  bathed  in  the  mild  light  of  the  winter 
evening. 

It  needed  no  second  glance  to  tell  you  the  relation  which  these  way- 
farers bore  to  each  other.    They  were  Master  and  Servant. 

It  is  true  you  gained  no  knowledge  of  this  fact,  from  survey  of  their 
garb.    They  were  attired  alike  in  the  costume  of  humble  toil. 

The  youngest  of  the  two,  not  more  than  twenty  years  in  age,  was  at 
least  six  feet  in  stature.  His  step  was  firm  and  graceful ;  his  coarse  garb 
could  not  hide  the  muscular  beauty  of  his  chest,  nor  altogether  veil  the 
round  proportions  of  his  sinewy  limbs.  From  his  cap  of  coarse  grey  fur, 
waving  masses  of  light  brown  hair  floated  in  the  light.  His  complexion 
was  light,  sanguine,  almost  florid,  and  his  features  firm  and  regular  in 
their  well-defined  outlines.  As  he  turned  to  the  western  sky,  you  might 
discern  the  colour  of  his  eyes  by  the  fading  light.  They  were  clear, 
large  and  brilliant,  and  in  color,  trembled  between  a  deep  azure  and  mid- 
night black. 

As  he  walked  along  the  narrow  lane — clad  in  a  coat  of  coarse  grey 
cloth  reaching  to  the  knees  and  buttoned  to  the  throat — his  manly  figure 
cast  its  distinct  shadow  far  over  the  mantle  of  glittering  snow. 

The  elder  wayfarer  presented  a  strange  contrast  to  his  young  and  hand- 
some companion,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  his  .Master.  There  was 
something  intensely  ludicrous  in  his  look,  his  gait,  the  outline  of  his  form, 
the  very  twinkle  of  his  small  black  eyes. 

That  outline,  described  on  the  frozen  snow,  was  in  itself  a  grotesque 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


15 


picture.  Imagine  a  round  paunch,  supported  by  long  and  spider-like  legs ; 
arms  whose  excessive  length  is  only  matched  by  their  intense  want  of 
flesh ;  hands  huge  and  bony  ;  high  shoulders,  surmounted  by  a  small  face, 
red  as  a  cherry,  round  as  an  apple,  with  a  wide  mouth,  small  nose,  and 
diminutive  eyes,  shining  like  flame-sparks  amid  laughing  wrinkles. 

This  was  the  servant,  clad  like  his  master,  wearing  the  same  garb,  a  fur 
cap  precisely  similar,  and  yet  presenting  in  every  outline  a  contrast  so 
laughable.  To  complete  the  picture,  you  must  not  permit  a  single  lock 
of  hair  to  wander  from  beneath  that  cap.  No  !  The  grey  fur  is  drawn 
tightly  over  the  forehead,  while  beneath  it — like  a  beacon — shines  the 
red,  round  face. 

In  the  calm  silence  of  that  winter  evening  they  journeyed  on,  their 
faces  bathed  in  the  same  mellow  light,  their  long  shadows  trembling  over 
the  snow.  The  red-faced  servant  beguiled  the  way,  with  many  singular 
substitutes  for  conversation,  but  dared  not  speak.  His  master  had  for- 
bidden him  to  unclose  his  enormous  mouth.  Therefore,  while  the  young 
man,  with  a  stout  oaken  staff  in  hand,  strode  steadily  on,  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  ground,  a  sombre  thought  stealing  over  his  face — the  servant 
amused  himself  by  a  sort  of  dumb  show,  that  gave  a  deeper  grotesqueness 
to  his  round  face  and  spider-like  form.  He  walked  like  a  man  afflicted 
with  a  distressing  lameness  ;  he  inflated  his  round  cheeks,  until  they  seemed 
ready  to  burst ;  he  rolled  his  eyes  in  their  sockets,  and  distorted  his  mouth, 
until  his  face  resembled  a  frog  in  the  agonies  of  a  galvanic  spasm  ;  and 
last  of  all,  placing  one  hand  on  his  hip,  and  twisting  one  leg  into  a  ser- 
pentine shape,  he  advanced  with  the  graceful  gait  of  a  belated  Muscovy 
duck.  Still  the  young  Master  did  not  pay  the  least  attention  to  his  antics, 
nor  suffer  his  eyes  to  wander  to  the  ridiculous  mimic  who  limped  at  his  side. 

Presently  they  stand  on  the  verge  of  yonder  bridge  of  dark  stone, 
which  spans  the  narrow  streamlet.  Two  roads  meet  beside  the  bridge  ; 
one,  the  continuation  of  the  lane,  winds  around  yonder  cluster  of  cottages 
and  skirts  the  mill-dam,  which,  framed  in  woods,  sparkles  before  us.  The 
other  road,  a  narrow  path,  rough  with  deep  ruts,  and  scarcely  wide  enough 
for  the  passage  of  two  horses,  when  journeying  abreast,  leads  over  the 
little  stone  bridge,  and  is  lost  to  view  on  yonder  hill-top,  among  the  ever- 
green pines. 

"  Which  road,  John — "  said  the  servant,  venturing  at  last  to  break  the 
silence,  and  laying  a  strange  emphasis  on  the  Italicized  word. 

"  Over  the  bridge,  and  up  among  the  pines.  It  is  the  nearest  to  the 
farm-house." 

They  crossed  the  bridge  and  rapidly  approached  the  shadows.  In  a 
moment  they  will  have  passed  from  the  soft  glow  of  the  twilight  into 
the  darkness  of  the  hill-side,  where  the  pines,  almost  touching  from  either 
side,  and  depending  from  the  high  banks,  enclosed  the  road  as  in  two 
high  and  almost  contiguous  walls. 


16 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


"  We  are  near  the  Wissahikon,  Jacob — "  the  young  master  began. 

"Jacopo,  if  you  please,"  whispered  the  servant,  with  a  peculiar  contor- 
tion ;  "  In  Italy  we  were  called  Jacopo — Jacopo,  you  remember  !  Hang 
Jacob.  It's  low,  and  smells  like  a  greasy  penny.  Jacopo  has  a  silvery 
sound." 

"  We  are  near  the  Wissahikon,  Jacopo.  Near  the  farm-house— you 
understand  ?  What  course  do  you  advise  ?  In  a  few  moments  we  will 
be  there—" 

The  young  man  hesitated,  as  though  afraid  to  trust  his  voice  with  the 
thought  of  his  heart.  He  cast  his  eyes  along  the  dark  and  narrow  pass, 
and  seemed  to  feel  the  silence  and  shadow  that  brooded  in  those  thick 
pines,  among  those  grey  rocks.  In  that  gloom,  even  the  cherry-ripe  face 
of  Jacob,  or  Jacopo,  as  the  reader  pleases,  grew  sad,  and  his  beacon-like 
nose  lost  its  freshness. 

"  What  course  ?  Can  it  be  possible  that  you  ask  me  ?  A  beautiful 
pair  of  ankles,  a  fine  bust,  an  eye  like  a  star  after  a  shower,  and  a  cheek 
like  a  peach  with  the  sun  shining  on  its  ripest  side — Bah  !  What  have 
you  been  doing  for  this  month  back?  In  Italy — Corpo  di  Bacco  ! 
(Fine  oath  that !) — we  managed  these  things  much  better  " 

"  Come  to  the  point,  Jacopo,"  and  the  master  touched  the  servant 
with  his  oaken  staff. 

"  I'm  coming.  Give  me  time.  Here  you  have  been  for  a  whole 
month,  wasting  your  time  in  toying  with  this  forest  damsel,  when  " 

The  pass  grew  darker.  Some  few  paces  ahead,  a  belt  of 'light  broke 
through  an  aperture  among  the  trees,  and  glowed  brightly  upon  the  summit 
of  a  solitary  rock. 

"  When  ?"  echoed  the  young  master,  laying  his  hand  upon  his  ser- 
vant's arm. 

Jacopo  halted ;  the  strange  expression  of  his  small  black  eye, — that 
leer,  half-comical,  half-satanic — were  visible  even  in  the  gloom. 

"  When  a  feiv  grains  of  white  powder,  quietly  mixed  in  a  cup  of 
wine,  would  do  the  work  of  a  whole  year  of  boyish  courtship — " 

"  What  mean  you  ?"  The  voice  of  John  sounded  deep  and  hollow 
through  the  silence  of  the  pass. 

"  You  remember  Florence  ?  She  was  a  proud  lady  that — but — 
Pshaw  !  You  know  how  it  happened,  when  we  were  in  Italy.  And 
this  is  but  a  Peasant  Girl !" 

These  incoherent  words  and  broken  hints  had  a  powerful  effect  upon 
the  young  man.  You  see  his  nether  lip  move  tremulously ;  his  bright 
eye  grow  brighter,  his  broad  chest  heave  like  a  wave. 

"  That  was  a  proud  lady,  Jacopo,  who  first  loved,  then  scorned  me — " 
he  gasped.    "But  Madeline — " 

"  4  But  Madeline,'  "  mimicked  the  servant,  speaking  in  a  dolorous  nasal 
tone — "  A  peasant  girl.     Lives  on  this  out-of-the-way  stream  they  call 


t 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


17 


Wissahikon— or  Wiskeysikeen — or  some  such  name.  We  come  from 
Philadelphia,  disguised  as  a  merchant's  clerk.  We  visit  the  farm-house, 
meet  the  little  girl  in  the  woods,  and  talk  romance  by  the  dozen.  We — 
that  is  you,  Mister  John — spend  our  time,  in  saying  soft  nonsense,  when 
we  should  trap- the  little  bird,  and  cage  it,  without  a  moment's  delay. 
Bah  !  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  John.  We  managed  these  things  much  better 
in  Italy." 

As  he  spoke,  a  strange  vision  broke  upon  the  wayfarers'  eyes.  They 
started  back — stood  spell-bound  with  involuntary  terror. 

They  had  reached  the  rock,  over  whose  rugged  brow  broke  the  last 
glow  of  the  winter's  day.  It  stood  alone,  a  bright  thing  among  the  dark 
pines,  its  crest  shining  like  gold. 

On  that  crest  arose  a  shapeless  and  uncouth  figure.  Was  it  a  man,  or 
some  strange  beast,  perched  before  them  on  the  summit  of  the  lonely 
rock  ?  It  rose  before  them,  a  stunted  figure,  with  arms  folded  over  its 
broad  chest,  an  uncouth  hump  rising  above  its  shoulders,  long  hair  and 
beard,  waving  black  and  straight  in  the  winter  wind.  Two  eyes,  bright 
as  flaming  coals,  glared  from  that  hideous,  half-human  visage,  with 
waving  hair  above,  and  streaming  beard  below. 

The  travellers  saw  those  thin  lips  move,  they  felt  the  vivid  light  of 
those  eyes,  and  between  them  and  the  light,  right  across  their  path,  a 
long  arm,  with  bony  lingers,  was  extended. 

"  Go  back  !"  a  voice  was  heard  speaking  through  the  intense  silence 
which  had  fallen  upon  the  pass — "  Go  back  !  Heir  of  a  noble  house 
— last  man  of  an  illustrious  race— I  stand  in  your  path,  and  warn  ye  back 
from  this  soil.  Back,  I  say,  and  never  let  your  footsteps  press  this  sod 
again.  There  is  danger  for  you  here.  That  word  Wissahikon  means 
death  and  judgment  to  your  race.  Even  now,  in  England  your  father 
prays  for  the  safe  return  of  his  son — ^ind  here  you  come  to  plot  the  ruin 
of  an  innocent  woman,  and  grasp  your  death  over  her  dishonored  corse  !" 

The  echo  of  that  hollow  voice  died  away  ;  the  travellers  looked  up ; 
the  rock  was  there,  glowing  in  the  light,  but  the  uncouth  shape  had  van- 
ished like  a  dream. 

It  is  plainly  to  be  seen,  even  through  the  gathering  gloom  of  the  hill- 
side pass,  that  these  words  of  omen,  uttered  by  the  "apparition,  which  ap- 
peared for  a  moment  only,  on  the  crest  of  the  rock,  had  their  own  effect 
— strange  and  deadening — upon  the  minds  of  the  wayfarers. 

Jacopo  sank  on  his  knees,  and  began  to  pray  in  four  or  five  languages. 
Having  exhausted  the  calendar  of  Catholic  saints,  implored  the  assistance 
of  Martin  Luther,  and  other  reformers,  he  concluded  with  the  emphatic 
ejaculation — 

"  Devil  help  me  !    We  didn't  see  any  thing  like  this  in  Italy  !" 
John  tottered  forward,  and  leaned  against  the  rock,  while  the  cold  dew 
stood  on  hi»  forehead. 

2 


13 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  Here  it  stood— that  horrible  phantom — "  he  madly  pressed  the  cold 
rock  with  his  hands — "  Here — and  warned  me  back  " 

The  words  died  on  his  lips.  Something  there  was  in  the  gathering 
night  of  that  forest  to  impress  his  heart  with  awe  ;  but  even  yet,  he  saw 
it,  distinctly  pictured  in  the  twilight  air,  that  phantom  of  a  deformed  man, 
with  the  face  of  a  human  being,  the  cold  lustrous  eyes  of  a  fiend. 

"  Come,  Jacopo,"  he  faltered,  "  we  will  go  back  !  This  is  an  unholy 
adventure.  Up,  man  !  Do  you  not  see,  that  the  very  Devil  warns  us  to 
retrace  our  steps  !" 

Jacopo,  still  on  his  knees,  glanced  about  him,  with  a  nervous  fear. 

"  Let  us  forward  to  the  farm-house.  The  night  is  cold  as  Iceland,  and 
we'll  freeze  to  death.    Come,  my  lord  " 

"  Fool  !  Dare  you  breathe  that  title  in  these  woods  ?  Have  I  not 
commanded  you  ?  Remember,  knave — he  finished  the  sentence  by  a 
hearty  admonition,  administered  on  the  cheek,  with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

Then,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  recent  emotion,  he  led  the  way  through  the 
darkness  

"  Come  !  I  am  going  to  the  farm-house.    Madeline  awaits  me  !" 

Followed  by  his  trembling  servant,  the  young  man  urged  his  way 
over  the  snow,  and  among  the  withered  leaves,  while  above,  the  thickly 
clustering  pines  extended  their  canopy,  blacker  than  the  midnight  with- 
out a  star. 

Soon  emerging  from  the  shadows,  they  stood  upon  the  verge  of  a  hill, 
with  the  sublime  panorama  of  the  twilight  hour  spread  before  them. 
Above,  that  cloudless  dome,  deepening  every  moment  into  a  more  intense 
azure.  Beneath,  a  wide  waste  of  woods,  stretched  grey  and  dark  under 
the  twilight  sky.  And  over  that  vague  mass,  just  where  it  touched  the 
horizon,  far  in  the  west,  hung  a  solitary  star,  glittering  in  lonely  glory, 
through  the  silent  universe. 

A  low,  musical  murmur  sounded  through  the  night.  It  came  through 
the  woods,  echoing  from  the  shadows  which  no  eye  might  penetrate.  It 
was  the  voice  of  an  impetuous  rivulet,  forcing  its  way  among  the  rocks 
of  ice  and  rocks  of  granite.    It  was  the  Wissahikon. 

Through  the  leafless  trees,  came  one  long  and  trembling  ray  of  light, 
shining  like  a  golden.arrow  over  the  frozen  snow. 

"  It  is  the  farm-house  !"  cried  Jacopo,  twirling  his  arms  in  grotesque 
delight — "  That's  something  like  !  Ah  !  I  smell  the  good  things  already 
— I  see  the  fire — that  hearty,  good-humored  fire — I  inhale  the  incense  of 
the  sausages  !    Come,  John,  let  us  forward  !" 

Winding  along  a  foot-path,  that  led  through  the  valley,  over  a  frozen 
brooklet,  and  up  the  opposite  hill,  they  soon  came  in  sight  of  the  farm-house. 

It  was  a  massive  edifice,  built  of  alternate  logs  and  stone,  two  stories  in 
height,  with  a  steep  roof  and  some  five  chimneys,  of  which  the  largest, 
sent  into  the  sky  a  rolling  mass  of  smoke.    It  was  a  quaint  structure  alto- 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKOX.  19 

gether,  the  windows  narrow  and  low,  the  porch  before  the  door,  fashioned 
of  rough  cedar,  the  steep  roof  cumbered  with  many  rude  ornaments  along 
the  projecting  eaves. 

It  stood — singular  as  it  may  seem — in  the  lowest  part  of  a  circular 
hollow,  which  seemed  to  have  been-  scooped  out  from  the  surrounding 
woods. 

On  one  side  the  portly  barn,  looking,  for  all  the  world,  like  a  rich  and 
self-complacent  citizen  retired  from  the  business  of  active  life,  and  given 
up  at  once  to  meditation  and  corpulence.  On  the  other  side  arose  a  giant 
horse-chesnut  tree,  with  ponderous  trunk  and  many  and  far-reaching 
branches.  Near  the  barn,  on  one  side  of  the  enclosures  of  the  cattle-yard, 
the  corn-crib  was  seen,  packed  to  bursting  with  the  ears  of  golden  maize. 

Along  the  lane,  which  led  to  the  farm-house  door,  a  line  of  vehicles 
was  discernible,  with  the  horses  attached  to  them,  carefully  tied  to  the 
rail  fence.  Vehicles  of  every  shape  and  pattern,  from  the  massive  farm- 
er's wagon,  whose  sides  had  often  groaned  under  the  heavy  load  of  corn 
and  hay.  to  the  quaint  gig — sulky  or  calash — which  shall  we  call  it  ? — 
that  wonderful  affair,  with  a  top  like  a  Monk's  cowl,  and  a  seat  perched 
high  on  springs,  in  which  the  village  Doctor  made  his  circuit  among  the 
sick  and  suffering  of  the  country-side. 

From  afar,  the  light  of  the  fireside  flashed  through  the  farm-house  win- 
dows, out  upon  the  starlight  night.  An  air  of  Sabbath  repose  imbued  the 
scene, — yet  hold  !  strains  of  music  break  on  the  silence,  music  from  an 
old  fiddle,  in  the  hands  of  the  blind  Negro  in  the  chimney  corner.  There 
is  a  festival  in  the  farm-house  to-night.  From  far  and  near  the  country 
people  have  come,  to  sing  and  dance  and  drink  together,  and  send  the  old 
year  to  his  grave,  with  a  chorus  of  boisterous  joy. 

In  the  snmmer-time,  this  farm-house  is  a  pleasant  sight  to  look  upon. 

Say,  in  the  month*  of  June,  when  the  air  seems  like  a  breeze  from  Para- 
dise, and  the  Wissahikon  goes  singing  on,  among  the  trees  that  dip  into 
it,  among  the  oaks  that  shadow  it,  among  the  flowers  that  tremble  above 
it,  ready  to  fall  and  bless  its  waters  with  their  white  bosoms — say,  in  the 
month  of  June,  have  you  ever  seen  the  farm-house,  framed  in  the  drapery 
of  leaves  and  blossoms  ? 

The  horse-chesnut  stretches  forth  its  arms,  clothed  with  broad  leaves — 
deep  and  rich  in  their  virgin  green — and  shelters  the  steep  roof,  scatter- 
ing, all  the  while,  its  snowy  blossoms  around  the  porch  below. 

There  is  a  wild  honeysuckle  trailing  over  the  dark  timbers  of  the  porch, 
and  the  very  lane,  leading  from  the  woods  to  the  door,  is  enclosed  in  its 
green  hedges,  two  winding  walls  of  leaves  and  buds  and  flowers.  Then 
the  roof  of  the  barn  stands  boldly  out  from  the  background  of  the  forest, 
and  the  fields  around,  tufted  with  grass,  spread  their  carpet  in  the  smile 
of  the  summer  sky — that  sky,  which  only  wears  a  deeper  blue,  when 
the  clouds  sweep  over  it,  unfolding  their  bosoms  to  the  sun. 


20 


PAUL  ARDENHEtM;  OR. 


Thus,  in  summer-time,  smiles  the  quaint  farm-house,  a  dark  image 
framed  in  freshness  and  verdure. 

But  now  that  dark  image  only  looks  more  dark  and  dreary,  as  the  gloom 
of  its  walls  is  contrasted  with  the  roof,  covered  with  snow.  The  fields 
around  are  white — look!  how  the  rays  of  the  fireside  go  sparkling  and 
shiniHg  over  the  white  mantle  which  veils  the  sod,  and  shields  beneath  it 
the  hidden  seeds  of  spring. 

The  horse-chesnut  springs  with  leafless  branches  into  the  blue  heaven, 
marking  each  rugged  limb  and  little  branch,  in  black  distinctness,  on  the 
clear  azure.  Winter  is  on  the  scene,  and  the  woods  which  encircle  the 
farm-house  and  its  white  fields  are  black  and  desolate. 

At  the  end  of  the  lane,  our  travellers  stood,  gazing  in  silence  upon  the 
prospect. 

The  young  man,  with  his  hands  clasped  on  his  staff*,  his  head  slightly 
bowed,  fixed  his  dilating  eyes  upon  the  lighted  windows  of  the  forest 
home.  He  was  silent;  but  even  in  the  dim  starlight,  you  might  have 
seen  his  broad  chest  swell,  his  brilliant  eye  grow  wild  with  a  more  in- 
tense brightness. 

"  Only  a  month  since  first  I  saw  this  home  in  the  wilderness  ?"  he 
murmured,  and  was  silent  again. 

Only  a  month  !  And  yet  a  great  many  thoughts  may  start  into  deeds 
in  a  month.  Only  a- month  !  It  is  but  a  little  while,  the  humble  twelfth 
of  the  long  year,  and  yet,  in  a  month,  only  a  month,  battles  may  be  lost 
and  won,  nations  hurled  from  masters  into  slaves,  and  bosoms  that  pant 
beneath  silk  and  velvet,  may  become  cold  and  still  under  grass  and  sod. 
Only  a  month  !  And  yet,  in  a  month,  the  heart  of  a  pure  virgin  may  be 
robbed  of  its  bloom  ;  her  form,  the  shrine  of  a  love  at  once  passionate  and 
pure,  become  the  monument  of  her  dishonor. 

';  How  the  image  of  this  wild  forest  girl  has  twined  itself  about  the 
chords  of  my  heart !  She  is  innocent — she  trusts  in  me — she  is  pure  ! 
To-morrow  " 

It  is  a  terrible  word,  that  to-morrow.  It  is  murmured  alike  by  the  con- 
vict, taking  his  last  sleep  in  the  doomed  cell,  and  by  the  woman,  who, 
surrendering  her  purity  into  the  arms  of  shame,  shrieks  it  fearfully  amid 
the  frenzies  of  her  guilty  love. 

To-morrow  !  Look  upon  the  lip  of  the  young  traveller,  curving  in  a 
smile  ;  read  his  dilating  eye,  warming  with  a  wild  yet  voluptuous  light, 
and  tell  me  what  means  that  smile,  that  look  7  A  fearful  "  to-morrow" 
for  the  wild  forest  girl ! 

The  voice  of  Jacopo  was  heard  : 

"  I  would  suggest  in  the  most  delicate  manner  in  the  world,  my  Lor — 
that  is,  Mister  John — and  without  the  least  desire  to  appear  obtrusive, 
that  there  are  two  of  us  here,  one  of  whom — not  being  delighted  with  stars 
or  forest  girls — stands  a  dev'lish  fine  chance  of  being  frozen  to  death. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


21 


Look  at  me,  John  !  Did  you  ever  see  a  human  icicle  before  ?  Ah,  it  is 
very  well  to  smile,  but  all  the  blood  in  my  thin  legs  has  rushed  into  my 

head,  and  from  my  head  into  my  nose  Did  you  ever  see  a  nose  like 

that  before?" 

He  placed  a  long  and  skinny  finger  against  that  intense  carbuncle  which 
formed  the  tip  of  his  nose,  and  looked  at  his  master  with  a  sidelong  leer. 

"  Come,"  said  John,  with  an  involuntary  smile,  "  let  us  hasten  to  the 
farm-house.    Madeline  awaits  me." 

As  he  hurried  along  the  lane,  Jacopo  crept  closer  to  his  side,  and  taking 
the  arm  of  his  master  within  his  own,  whispered  these  jocular  words  : 

"  Music  yonder,  John,— d'ye  hear  it  ?  Supper  too — Ah  !  One  can 
smell  that !  And — d'ye  remember — if  the  girl  is  willing,  why — you  have 
an  elegant  house  in  Philadelphia,  which  maj|  be  her  home  before  morn- 
ing. If  she  refuses — is  obstinate,  or  stupid — why,  trust  the  matter  to  me. 
lA  few  grains  of  white  powder,  properly  prepared?  saith  an  ancient  Phi- 
losopher, *  conveyed  into  the  drinking-cup  of  an  innocent  maiden,  will — ' 
D'ye  hear  the  fiddle,  John  ?" 


CHAPTER  SECOND. 

YOCONOK. 

Within  the  farm-house  the  details  of  a  strangely  interesting  picture, 
lighted  by  the  warmth  of  a  capacious  hearth,  awafit  us. 

Yet  ere  we  enter,  we  must  go  back  to  the  hour  of  sunset,  and  gaze  upon 
a  far  different  scene. 

The  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  streaming  through  the  thick  pines,  gave 
their  faint  and  uncertain  light  to  a  lonely  nook  in  the  forest  of  Wissahikon. 
It  was  a  circular  space,  not  more  than  twenty  yards  in  diameter.  The 
trunks  of  pine  and  fir  trees,  starting  side  by  side  from  the  sod,  formed  an 
impenetrable  wall  around  it ;  their  branches,  meeting  overhead. and  woven 
together,  shadowed  it  like  a  roof.  It  is  a  silent  place,  enlivened  only  by 
a  ray  of  light — that  streams  over  the  frozen  snow  like  a  golden  thread, 
and  is  gone  ere  you  can  look  again. 

The  deep  green  of  the  branches  forms  a  strong  contrast  to  the  slight 
mantle  of  snow,  which  has  drifted  into  this  lonely  nook. 

Yonder,  between  those  two  huge  trunks,  you  discern  something,  which 
may  be  the  resting-place  of  a  man,  and  yet  looks  like  the  lair  of  a  wild 
beast. 


22  PAUL  ARDENHEIM ;  OR, 

This  lair  or  hut,  whatever  you  may  choose  to  call  it,  is  formed  after  the 
simplest  style  of  architecture.  The  trunks  of  those  trees  supply  the  place 
of  door-posts  ;  the  skins  of  wild  beasts  stretched  from  branch  to  branch, 
compose  the  roof ;  some  wild  moss  scattered  on  the  sod  beneath,  at  once 
the  bed  and  floor  of  the  rude  home. 

Beside  that  hut,  or  lair,  stands  a  rifle,  with  a  stock  of  dark  mahogany 
inlaid  with  silver. 

In  the  centre  of  the  scene,  seated  on  the  trunk  of  that  fallen  tree — 
blasted  last  summer  by  the  lightning — you  behold  the  figure  of  a  Man. 

A  Man,  though  his  dark-red  visage  wears  the  wrinkles  of  an  hundred 
years.  A  single  tuft  of  snow-white  hair  waves  from  the  centre  of  his 
skull.  A  blanket,  much  worn  and  tattered,  falls  back  from  his  shoulders 
and  discloses  the  shrunken^outlines  of  that  once  broad  and  sinewy  chest. 
His  thin  limbs  are  cased  in  leather  leggings,  and  he  wears  moccasins  on 
his  long,  straight  feet. 

The  downcast  head,  sunken  on  the  chest  in  an  attitude  of  stolid  apathy, 
at  once  arrests  our  attention.  The  high  cheek-bones,  the  nose  curved 
like  an  eagle's  beak,  the  bold  arch  of  the  brow,  the  forehead  lofty  in  pro- 
portion to  its  width,  all  indicate  an  organization  once  full  of  physical  and 
mental  power. 

But  age  has  fallen  on  that  noble  head  and  iron  form.  The  deep  wrin- 
kles on  either  side  of  the  compressed  lips,  the  cavernous  hollow  beneath 
each  cheek-bone,  the  muscles  of  the  neck,  resembling  cords  of  iron,  all 
speak  of  that  stern  life,  whose  sands  have  been  falling  for  an  hundred 
years.  Those  sands  are  well-nigh  run.  A  little  while,  and  those  dark 
eyes,  now  glaring  with  vacant  despair  upon  the  sod,  will  be  darkened  for- 
ever by  the  shadow  of  the  falling  clod. 

It  is  an  Indian  that  we  behold.  One  hundred  years  ago  he  was  born, 
in  this  very  forest,  the  child  of  a  King.  Seventy  years  gone  by,  he  strode 
this  soil,  and  looked,  with  a  quivering  pulse,  upon  the  forms  of  his  dusky 
warriors.  His  wigwam  was  here  ;  here  his  squaw,  with  the  brown  cheek 
and  sad,  deep  eyes,  and  his  child,  encased  in  its  rude  cradle,  quivered  in 
its  slumber  upon  yonder  tree. 

They  are  all  gone  now.  His  race  has  passed ;  they  are  forgotten  by 
the  strange  white  race,  who  now  people  the  woods,  and  rear  their  stone 
wigwams  on  the  plain. 

Of  all  his  race,  he  is  the  Last. 

Think  of  the  powerful  People,  who  walked  these  woods  an  hundred 
years  ago — the  smoke  of  their  wigwams  rising  from  every  dell,  the  gleam 
of  their  many-colored  wampum  belts  seen  from  every  hill-top — and  then 
behold  this  stern  image  of  their  Destiny  

— An  old  man,  withered  by  the  long  winter  of  an  hundred  years,  seated 
alone  in  the  silent  forest,  suffering  at  once  from  intense  hunger  and  cold, 
and  dying  by  inches  !  


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


23 


Go  to  the  white  man's  home,  and  beg  for  bread  !  The  old  Indian  is 
too  proud  for  that,  even  though  no  morsel  has  passed  his  lips  for  two 
days.  He  will  die — Hark !  you  hear  that  low  murmur  from  his  thin, 
cold  lips  ? 

It  is  the  Death-Song  of  Yoconok,  the  last  of  his  tribe. 

He  will  die, — alone, — desolate  as  the  winter  which  howls  around  him— 
but  die  proud  and  uncomplaining. 

"  Ghosts  of  my  fathers,  hear  my  voice,  for  it  is  your  child,  it  is  Yoco- 
nok that  calls  ! 

"  The  old  man  is  cold— no  corn,  no  fire  !  But  he  is  coming,  Fathers 
of  the  Red  Men — he  is  coming  to  the  happy  hunting-grounds,  he  is 
coming  to  the  land  of  Manitto  !  He  is  cold  now,  but  soon  he  will  be 
warmed  by  the  sun  that  never  shines  upon  winter  or  snow  !  He  is 
hungry,  the  old  warrior,  but  there,  the  deer  wander  without  ceasing, 
through  woods  whose  greenness  never  dies  ! 

"  You  are  there,  my  fathers.  Yoconok  sees  you,  as  you  stand  upon  the 
high  mountain,  which  guards  the  happy  hunting-grounds.  The  sunlight 
is  upon  your  faces.  The  smoke  of  the  calumet  encircles  your  heads. 
Yoconok  sees  you  all — he  is  coming  !  There,  the  squaw  of  Yoconok, 
there  his  child — his  People — all !  Ghosts  of  my  fathers,  sing  the  song  of 
the  war-path,  for  Yoconok  is  coming  to  the  happy  land,  where  the  sun 
never  sets,  and  the  leaf  never  dies  !" 

Thus,  in  our  imperfect  way,  have  we  endeavored  to  translate  the  stern 
and  simple  death-song  of  the  old  Indian  chief.  When  he  spoke  in  the 
tongue  of  the  pale  face,  his  words  were  few  and  grotesque,  but  in  his 
own  tongue,  the  language  of  his  fathers,  Yoconok  was  eloquent.  Look 
upon  him  now,  with  that  glassy  eye  brightening  into  new  life,  that  chest 
throbbing  with  quick  pulsations,  that  brow  raised  proudly  in  the  wander- 
ing gleam  of  the  setting  sun  ! 

Fired  with  that  last  impulse  of  life,  he  started  to  his  feet  and  seized  the 
rifle,  and  stood  erect,  with  his  chest  thrown  forward,  as  if  in  the  act  of 
confronting  a  mortal  foe.  His  eye  was  lighted  with  fire  of  forty  years 
ago,  his  nostrils  quivered  with  a  quick  nervous  motion. 

"  Yoconok  is  on  the  war-path  once  more  !  Let  the  foe  come — the  old 
warrior  is  young  again — he  knows  no  fear  !" 

It  was  a  glorious  picture  in  the  history  of  the  Red  Man ;  that  solitary 
nook,  walled  and  roofed  by  trees,  mantled  with  a  slight  covering  of  snow, 
with  the  dying  warrior  erect  in  the  centre,  his  chest  bared,  his  arm  raised 
in  the  act  of  battle. 

But  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  The  impulse  died  away,  and  the  old 
warrior  sank  helpless  and  exhausted  upon  the  blasted  tree.  The  rifle  was 
in  his  grasp,  but  his  arm  was  nerveless,  his  sight  dim  and  fast  failing. 

As  he  sank  upon  the  log,  the  blanket  falling  from  his  shoulders,  he 
murmured  in  his  Indian  tongue  — 


24  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

m  She  was  the  only  friend  of  the  old  warrior,  but  she  comes  to  the  wig- 
wam no  more.  The  White  Doe  dwells  in  the  home  of  the  pale  face. 
When  Yoconok  was  sick,  the  White  Doe  came — when  he  was  cold,  she 
built  his  tire— her  hands  fed  him,  when  the- old  man  could  go  forth  on  the 
hunting-path  no  more.  But  Yoconok  is  dying,  and  the  White  Doe  comes 
not.  The  warrior  is  forgotten  ;  the  home  of  the  pale  face  has  fire  and 
water.    The  wigwam  of  Yoconok  is  dark  !" 

Chilled  by  the  intense  cold,  fevered  by  the  want  of  food,  the  old  war- 
rior sank  exhausted  and  insensible  on  the  log.  His  eyes  were  glassy; 
his  arms  hung  nerveless  by  his  side. 

There  was  a  step  upon  the  snowy  moss — a  light,  soft-echoing  step,  like 
the  rustling  of  a  withered  leaf.  From  an  interval  between  the  trees,  to- 
ward the  west,  the  form  of  a  woman  appeared,  and  a  woman's  face  looked 
in  upon  the  gloom  of  the  lonely  covert. 

A  wandering  ray  of  sunlight  shone  over  her  brown  hair,  and  gleamed 
upon  her  humble  garb,  as  she  stood,  with  her  hands  raised  in  a  gesture  of 
surprise  and  alarm. 

She  was  a  girl  of  not  more  than  eighteen  years,  clad  in  the  boddice  and 
coarse  linsey  skirt,  which  formed  the  costume  of  a  peasant  woman,  in  the 
early  days  of  Pennsylvania.  Yet  that  boddice  displayed  the  outline  of  a 
full  bosom,  and  from  beneath  that  coarse  skirt  appeared  two  small  feet 
encased  in  rude  moccasins. 

From  the  folds  of  the  brown  cloak,  which  hung  from  her  shoulders, 
her  round  bare  arms  were  visible,  with  a  glimpse  of  the  white  neck  and 
fairer  bosom  rising  slowly  into  view. 

"  Yoconok  !"  she  cried,  and,  springing  along  the  sod,  stood  over  the  in- 
sensible chief. 

The  sunlight,  gushing  suddenly  through  an  opening  in  the  boughs, 
lighted  up  her  face,  while  her  form  and  the  figure  of  the  old  man  were 
wrapt  in  soft  shadow. 

In  that  sudden  light,  which  played  over  her  brown  cheeks,  and  shone 
upon  the  unbound  masses  of  her  chesnut  hair,  the  face  of  the  young  girl 
looked  like  the  countenance  of  a  virgin  saint,  encircled  in  a  glory. 

"Yoconok!"  she  cried,  in  the  Indian  tongue,  "awake!  the  White 

Doe  is  here — she  has  not  forgotten  you  !    She  brings  you  food  ah  !" 

she  exclaimed,  in  English,  "  he  does  not  hear  me,  he  is  dead — " 

Her  voice  seemed  to  call  back  to  the  old  warrior's  heart,  the  last  im- 
pulse of  life.  His  glassy  eyes  glowed  with  faint  lustre ;  his  motionless 
lips  were  unclosed  again. 

"  Good  !"  he  muttered  in  English,  with  a  deep  guttural  accent — "  Mad'- 
lin'— White  Doe— Good  !" 

It  would  have  made  your  heart  beat  quicker,  to  behold  the  angel-like 
tenderness  of  that  brown-cheeked  maiden. 

"  You  are  cold,  Yoconok" —  and  she  pressed  his  chilled  hands  to  her 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


25 


warm  bosom,  and  wound  the  blanket  around  his  shoulders.  Then  sinking 
beside  him,  she  drew  some  corn  bread  from  the  small  basket  which  she 
carried  on  her  arm,  but  the  old  man  could  not  eat. 

"  The  fire-water !"  he  cried,  clutching  her  cloak,  as  he  pointed  to  his 
throat.    "  Yoconok  is  dry — Yoconok  has  not  drank  for  two  days — " 

"  1  have  forgotten  the  flask  !"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  tossed  the  contents 
of  the  basket  on  the  ground — "  The  fire-water  is  not  good  for  the  Red 
Man.  It  burns  his  heart,  and  puts  the  Evil  Manitto  in  his  veins  !  Wait, 
Yoconok — I  will  bring  you  water  from  the  Wissahikon — " 

As  she  whispered  these  words  in  the  Indian  tongue,  bending  her  lips  to 
his  ear,  a  quick,  pattering  sound  broke  the  deep  silence  of  the  shadowy 
nook. 

The  young  girl  raised  her  eyes  and  stood  spell-bound,  with  surprise. 

There,  not  ten  paces  from  where  she  stood,  a  wild  deer  was  gazing  in. 
her  face,  with  its  large  eyes  dilating  as  in  wonder  and  alarm.  It  was  a 
beautiful  doe,  with  sleek  brown  skin  and  slender  and  tapering  limbs. 

The  maiden  stood  like  a  statue  ;  the  gloom  shadowed  her  from  the  view 
of  the  cautious  animal,  while  the  sunlight  fell  like  a  scarf  of  gold  over  its 
quivering  nostrils  and  dilating  eyes. 

At  once  the  brave  girl's  resolution  was  taken. 

"  The  old  warrior  has  told  me  many  a  time,  that  the  warm  blood  from 
the  neck  of  a  dying  doe,  will  save  the  life  of  the  sick  and  starving." 

The  doe  gazed  for  a  moment  around  the  covert,  with  that  peculiar 
glance  of  fear  and  alarm — its  short  ears  quivering  all  the  while — and  then, 
stooping  her  head,  began  to  browse  the  soft  and  fragrant  moss,  which 
started  from  the  intervals  of  the  snow. 

Even  as  the  doe  lowered  her  head,  the  young  girl  raised  the  rifle. 
Her  bosom  heaved  tremulously  ;  it  seemed  a  terrible  sin  to  kill  that 
gentle  thing,  which  fed  so  innocently  before  her  eyes. 

Again  the  doe  raised  her  head,  again  elevated  her  ears  and  gazed 
around,  and  all  the  while  the  rifle,  lifted  in  the  soft  arms  oe  the  young 
girl,  was  levelled  at  her  breast. 

Her  aim  was  not  the  most  certain  in  the  world,  yet  as  she  raised  the 
rifle  she  murmured — "It  is  for  Yoconok's  life!"  and  placed  her  finger 
on  the  trigger. 

At  this  moment  the  sunlight,  shifting,  played  more  freely  over  the 
beautiful  head  and  graceful  limbs  of  the  doe.  She  stood  encircled  by 
light,  while  all  around  was  twilight  gloom. 

"  For  Yoconok's  life  !"  murmured  the  girl,  her  finger  placed  upon  the 
trigger,  when  a  sharp,  quick,  almost  imperceptible  sound  echoed  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  forest.  As  quick  as  thought,  Madeline  turned,  and 
her  blood  grew  cold. 

For,  glaring  from  the  shadow  of  a  pine  branch  which  touched  the  ground 
two  brilliant  points  of  flame  sent  their  rays  to  her  very  breast. 


26  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

These  brilliant  points  of  flame,  were  the  eyes  of  a  female  panther 
which,  crouching  on  the  snow,  was  about  to  spring  upon  the  uncon- 
scious deer. 

The  young  girl  saw  that  crouching  form,  darkly  defined  on  the  snow- 
covered  sod. 

I  need  not  tell  you  that  her  heart  beat  quickly,  that  her  color  went 
and  came,  while  the  rifle  was  grasped  by  arms,  that  seemed  suddenly 
frozen  into  stone. 

She  could  not  stir  ;  terror  held  her  paralyzed  and  dumb.  A  moment 
fled  !  Still  those  fiery  eyes  glared  from  the  covert ;  still,  on  the  opposite 
side,  in  the  sunlight  browsed  the  unconscious  doe,  raising  every  moment 
her  mild  eyes  into  the  sun— glancing  round— and  then  stooping  her  head 
to  feed  again. 

"  The  doe  must  die,  or  else  Yoconok's  life  is  gone  !  If  I  kill  the  doe, 
the  panther  will  spring  upon  me— if  I  turn  the  rifle  upon  the  panther,  the 
doe  will  escape  !" 

Thus  ran  her  wandering  thoughts  ;  but  at  once  she  was  resolved  upon 
her  course  of  action.  While  her  bosom  heaved  in  gasps,  while  the  hands 
which  grasped  the  rifle,  seemed  chilled  in  every  vein,  with  the  ice  of  death, 
she  still  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  retain  her  statue-like  position. 

Again  the  doe  raised  her  head.  It  was  for  the  last  time.  For  even  as 
her  large  mild  eyes  glittered  in  that  passing  ray  of  sunshine,  a  whizzing 
sound  disturbed  the  dead  silence — a  dark  body  swept  through  the  air,  be- 
fore the  very  eyes  of  the  maiden — and  the  doe  lay  mangled  upon  the  sod, 
its  warm  blood  spouting  over  the  panther's  jaws. 

The  maiden  beheld  it  all.  Saw  the  fur  of  the  wild  beast  glow  sleek 
and  glossy  in  the  sun,  as,  with  a  deep  growl,  she  mangled  the  neck  of  the 
quivering  deer. 

The  rifle  was  raised.  Hush  !  That  sharp,  quick  report ;  how  it 
crashes  on  the  silence  ! 

Woe  to  the  young  girl  now,  woe  to  her,  if  her  trembling  aim  has  failed 
to  kill.  For  then,  the  jaws  of  the  panther,  which  tore  the  palpitating 
heart  of  the  doe,  will  rend  the  bosom  of  the  maiden,  and  grow  crimson 
with  her  blood. 

She  drew  the  trigger,  and  fell  swooning  on  the  ground. 

But  the  sound  of  the  rifle  called  the  old  warrior  back  to  life.  As  we 
gaze,  in  dumb  surprise,  he  raises  his  head,  starting  into  a  sitting  posture. 
At  a  glance  he  beholds  the  dying  doe,  with  the  blood  smoking  as  it  pours 
from  the  mangled  throat.  He  does  not  heed  the  panther,  which  writhes 
upon  the  sod,  its  skull  cloven  by  the  fortunate  ball. 

But  tottering  forward,  he  falls  upon  the  sod,  gathers  the  warm  body  of 
the  doe  in  his  arms,  and  applies  his  lips  to  the  wound  in  the  throat. 
He  drinks  the  blood — aye,  pure  and  fresh,  as  it  pours  from  the  palpitating 
heart  of  the  deer — he  drinks  the  crimson  current,  with  a  mad  delight. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  27 

"*Ugh  !*  Yoconok  is  a  warrior  !  Yoconok  will  follow  his  foe  on  the 
war  path  and  drink  his  blood !" 

It  was  some  time  before  the  young  girl  unclosed  her  eyes.  Starting 
from  her  swoon,  Madeline  saw  that  dark  night  had  fallen  upon  the  woods, 
but  the  light  of  a  cheerful  flame  shone  in  her  face,  and  baptized  those 
giant  trunks,  the  green  canopy  overhead,  with  a  crimson  glow. 

She  passed  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  and  glanced  hurriedly  from  side 
to  side.  Before  her,  in  the  centre  of  the  covert,  a  mass  of  ponderous 
logs  were  blazing,  their  heat  imparting  a  delicious  temperature  to  the  air 
of  the  place,  while  by  her  side,  crouched  upon  the  sod,  his  face  glowing 
in  the  ruddy  light,  was  Yoconok. 

In  one  hand  he  held  the  calumet,  from  which  he  inhaled  the  peace- 
inspiring  fumes  of  tobacco  ;  in  the  other  a  piece  of  peeled  hickory,  which, 
inserted  in  a  slice  of  venison,  held  the  savory  morsel  over  the  hot  coals. 

There  was  a  calm  expression — a  look  of  deep  quiet,  and  dreamy  com- 
posure— upon  each  corded  wrinkle  of  Yoconok's  withered  face. 

When  Madeline  awoke,  she  discovered  that  her  head  was  resting  on 
the  Indian's  knee.  He  had  built  the  fire,  and,  like  a  kind  nurse  watching 
over  a  sleeping  babe — placed  her  head  upon  his  knee,  so  that  the  full 
light  of  the  fire  would  shine  into  her  face.  In  silence  he  guarded  her 
unconscious  form. 

"  Ugh  !  White  Doe  is  good" —  he  said  in  English,  as  she  unclosed 
her  eyes — "  White  Doe  kill  deer.  Blood  save  Yoconok  life.  Manitto 
told  the  White  Doe,  old  man  hungry,  old  man  dying.  White  Doe  came, 
Yoconok  strong 

With  his  fingers  he  tore  the  half-broiled  venison,  and  devoured  it  with 
all  the  eagerness  of  famine. 

Madeline  rose,  and  placed  her  hand  upon  the  Indian's  shoulder,  and 
stood  in  silence.  The  light  of  the  fire  streamed  over  her,  and  you  might 
freely  read  the  expression  of  her  face,  and  gaze  upon' each  waving  outline 
of  her  form. 

Around  that  face,  whose  rich  brown  hue  deepened  into  vermilion  on 
the  full  lips  and  swelling  cheek,  swept  the  unbound  masses  of  her  brown 
hair.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  shaded  by  long  lashes.  Their  color  was 
a  soft  brown,  darkening  sometimes  into  black,  but  always  brilliant  and 
sparkling  as  the  stars  that  come  forth  in  the  purple  of  the  twilight  hour. 

She  was  by  no  means  tall,  but  that  which  her  form  lacked  in  height, 
was  supplied  by  its  full  and  flowing  outlines. 

Her  shoulders  are  seen  above  the  coarse  boddice,  and  like  a  wave  that 
swells  without  breaking,  her  young  bosom  comes  gently  into  view. 

The  skirt  of  coarse  texture  which  descended  but  a  short  distance  below 
the  knee,  gave  some  indications,  by  its  folds,  of  the  warm  beauty  of  the 
maiden's  shape.  Her  cloak  had  fallen  aside,  and  her  arms  glowed  with 
the  clear  hues  and  round  outlines,  in  the  light  of  the  fire. 


28  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR,  - 

Altogether,  a  picture  more  interesting  in  its  varied  details  cannot  be  Ima- 
gined. That  fire,  flashing  over  the  bark  of  the  encircling  trees,  and 
lighting  up  the  dark  green  branches  above.  The  snow  blushing  into 
crimson.  .  Here  the  old  Indian,  a  stern  image  of  decay,  seated  on  the 
earth,  his  arms  clasped  on  his  knees,  the  smoke  of  the  pipe  winding 
about  his  wrinkled  features  ;  there,  a  young  girl  clad  in  peasant  attire, 
yet  with  a  ripening  bloom  glowing  freshly  from  her  brown  face,  and 
waving  in  the  outlines  of  her  virgin  form. 

"You  must  forgive  me,  Yoconok" — she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  old 
warrior's  arm — "  For  two  days  I  have  not  seen  you.  But  I  have  not 
been  myself  for  two  days.  I  have  been  wild — mad  !  There  is  a  dark 
cloud  upon  the  path  of  your  White  Doe." 

As  she  spoke  sadly  in  the  dialect  of  the  Indian,  he  inclined  his  head  to 
*       one  side  and  listened  in  evident  anxiety. 

"  Does  the  old  man  hear  the  voice  of  the  child — or  does  the  White 
Doe  speak  the  language  of  Dreams  ?" 

Madeline  crouched  on  the  earth  by  his  side,  and  clasping  her  hands 
over  her  form,  murmured  with  a  faltering  voice — 

"Yoconok  is  my  only  friend.  For  years  his  words  have  been  life  to 
the  poor  orphan  girl.  She  comes  to  him  now.  She,  who  never  saw  the 
face  of  father  or  mother,  who  has  lived  all  her  life,  by  the  fire  of  the 
stranger,  in  dependence  on  others,  now  comes  to  the  old  man  for  counsel. 
— Tell  me,  father,  what  I  must  do,  or  I  will  die  !" 

Her  cheek  was  flushed,  her  bosom  panting ;  she  looked  very  beautiful, 
with  her  large  eyes  veiled  in  moisture.  The  old  chief  turned  ;  something 
like  affection  shone  in  his  lustreless  eyeballs,  as  he  placed  her  soft  palm 
in  his  bony  fingers. 

"  Shall  the  White  Doe  become  the  squaw  of  Gilbert  the  Hunter,  the 
Man  who  dwells  in  the  forest,  or  of  this  Stranger,  who  tomes  from  the 
cities  of  the  pale  face,  and  has  no  name  ?" 

"  Yes — that  is  the  question  I  would  ask  of  you — three  days  since, 
before  I  fell  sick,  I  told  you  the  whole  story  " 

"  The  heart  of  the  White  Doe  inclines  to  Gilbert,  the  Man  of  the 
Forest,  but  her  soul  wanders  against  her  will  to  the  Stranger  who  has 
no  name  ?" 

"  Yes"— faltered  Madeline—"  Yes — that  is  it !  I  love  Gilbert ;  we 
were  children  together  ;  I  have  always  loved  him.    But  this  stranger, 

who.  a  month  ago,  appeared  for  the  first  time  in  our  farm-house  ah  I 

His  eye  deprives  me  of  all  power  ;  his  voice  fills  me  with  a  wild  terror  ! 
Wherever  I  move,  I  see  him — at  night  he  is  in  my  dreams  !  I  fear  him,  and 

yet  an  unknown  power  draws  me  toward  him,  and  makes     j  No ! 

No  !  Not  love  him  !  For  I  fear  him  too  much.  I  cannot  gaze  into  his 
eye  without  a  shudder  !" 

The  old  warrior  did  not  reply.    His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  fire,  the 


* 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  29 

pipe  was  extended  in  his  left  hand,  but  he  sate  motionless  as  a  stone.  In 
her  agitation  Madeline  had  not  so  much  addressed  the  Chief,  as  involun- 
tarily shaped  her  thoughts  in  words.  Wondering  at  the  continued  silence 
of  Yoconok,  she  laid  her  hand  lightly  upon  his  arm — it  was 'cold  as  ice.  • 

With  a  shudder  she  looked  into  his  face — the  eyes  were  glassy. 

"  Yoconok  !  Spe?k  to  your  child  !  Do  not  leave  me  alone,  in  the  cold, 
dark  world !" 

He  spoke  not,  but  a  faint  light,  like  the  last  ray  of  the  expiring  taper, 
glanced  from  his  motionless  eyeballs.  She  flung  herself  upon  him, 
girded  his  gaunt  form  in  her  bared  arms,  and  pressed  her  downy  cheek 
against  his  withered  face.  Cold  the  form,  cold  the  cheek,  cold  as  the  ice 
upon  the  Wissahikon. 

"  He  is  dead  !"  The  wild  shriek  of  Madeline  rung  through  the  woods 
— "Mine  only,  friend!  The  blood  of  the  dying  deer  only  called  him 
back  to  life  for  a  moment — he  is  dead,  gone  to  the  land  where  his  fathers 
dwell,  and  without  one  parting  word  to  his  child  I" 

She  was  an  orphan,  one  of  those  wandering  children  of  God,  whom 
no  one  calls,  Child !  Alone  in  the  world !  Those  words  are  full  of 
meaning,  but  to  the  orphan  they  speak  in  tones  of  horrible  emphasis.  To 
the  orphan  they  mean  poverty  and  neglect,  temptation  and  despair. 

But  she  was  not  yet  altogether  alone.  A  few  muttered  words  quivered 
from  the  cold  lips  of  the  dying  Indian.  With  the  last  gleam  of  life 
playing  over  his  motionless  balls,  he  spoke — 

"  Fear  this  Stranger  !  as  the  Manitto  of  Evil  fear  him  !  Do  not 
put  your  trust  in  Gilbert.  He  is  brave,  he  is  true,  but  hands  that  he  can- 
not see,  guide  him  on  to  a  deed  of  falsehood  and  blood.  Fear  the  stranger 
— do  not  trust  Gilbert — but  dread  the  old  man,  ivhose  roof  gives  you 
shelter,  dread  him  worse  than  hunger — cold — or  death  !" 

With  these  words, — spoken  not  as  we  have  written  them,  but  in  an  In- 
dian dialect,  which  compresses  a  hundred  separate  .ideas  in  a  sentence, 
— the  old  Chief,  who  had  once  grasped  the  hand  of  William  Penn,  lay 
on  the  snow,  as  cold  as  the  wind  which  swept  his  tawny  cheeks,  as  mo- 
tionless as  the  great  twunks  which  encircled  the  scene,  rising  in  the  fire- 
light, like  th-e  unhewn  pillars  of  a  pagan  temple. 

Madeline  was  alone. 

The  same  cheerful  glow,  which  lighted  up  her  young  face,  shone  over 
the  mangled  deer,  and  revealed  the  cold  features  of  the  dead  Indian. 

The  woods  were  very  still.  Now  and  then,  a  gust  of  wind  howled, 
like  a  war-blast,  down  some  midnight  ravine,  and*  again,  every  sound 
save  the  crackling  of  the  wild-wood  fire  died  away,  in  an  unearthly 
stillness. 

Her  arms  clasped,  her  beautiful  profile  cut  distinctly  on  the  dark  back- 
ground, her  large  lustrous  eye,  her  warm  nether  lip  tinted  by  the  fire,  she 
stood  in  an  attitude  of  deep  sorrow,  gazing  into  the  face  qf  the  corse. 


30 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


As  the  old  man  died,  he  had  folded  his  arms,  and  knit  his  brows  ;  he 
looked  stern  and  unrelenting,  even  as  a  corse  ;  there  was  a  warrior's  de- 
fiance upon  his  red  visage. 

li  He  was  my  only  friend  !  True,  the  old  man  at  the  Farm-House 
gave  me  food  and  shelter,  since  the  hour  when  I  was  discovered  in  these 
woods; — a  poor,  forsaken  babe.  But  Yoconok  was  my  friend;  to  him  I 
brought  my  sorrows,  of  him  I  asked  advice.  While  he  lived,  I  felt  that 
I  was  not  alone!  Now  it  is  changed!  This  cold  winter  night  is  not 
more  desolate  than  the  fate  of  the  poor  Orphan  Girl !" 

Beside  the  fire  she  knelt,  and  raised  her  eyes,  and  spread  forth  her 
hands,  and  through  the  canopy  of  overarching  pines,  looked  up  to — God. 

0,  how  softly,  over  her  brown  face,  that  expression  of  child-like  Faith 
stole,  like  a  veil  of  light ! 

A  step  aroused  her  from  her  prayer — a  hand  was  laid  upon  her  shoulder 
— with  a  half-uttered  cry  of  fear,  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  The  Wizard  !  The  Ghost-seer  !•'  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands  to 
her  breast,  with  an  accent  and  a  gesture  of  shuddering  fear. 

"  Nay,  maiden,  do  not  fear  me.  Old  Isaac  harms  no  one.  He  is  but 
a  Watcher,  in  this  dreary  world.  The  Lord  hath  told  him,  "Watch 
and  I  will  come  to  thee ;"  and  lo  !  Isaac  watches  evermore,  seeking 
the  knowledge  of  the  Life  which  is  Eternal !  Dost  fear  the  old  man, 
maiden  ?" 

In  the  light  of  the  fire,  stood  a  stunted  figure,  not  more  than  five  feet 
in  height,  the  chest  narrow,  the  back  bent,  as  if  with  years,  the  veins 
swelling  black  and  distinct  on  the  pale  face  and  dead-white  hands. 

That  face — sunken  on  the  breast — was  marked  by  deep  wrinkles,  which 
traversed  the  cheeks  and  brow,  and  added  to  the  spiritual  look  of  those 
blue  eyes,  which  seemed  not  so  much  to  shine,  as  to  burn,  beneath  the 
white  eyebrows.  From  a  small  cap  of  black  cloth,  which  covered  the 
head  of  the  stranger,  long  locks  of  straight  hair  fell  like  snow-flakes,  and 
waved  in  white  masses,  in  the  light  of  the  fire. 

He  was  clad  after  the  costume  of  the  olden  time.  A  dark  coat,  much 
faded  and  worn,  with  buttons  of  polished  metal ;  a  vest  with  white  lap- 
pels,  descending  half-way  to  the  knees  ;  black  stockings,  which  fell  in  wrin- 
kles around  the  sunken  limbs,  and  large  shoes,  glittering  with  silver 
buckles. 

This  was  the  costume  of  the  old  man,  whose  form  indicated  extreme 
old  age,  or  premature  decrepitude,  while  his  blue  eyes  and  white  hair, 
gave  an  almost  hallowed  look  to  his  wrinkled  face. 

And  yet  the  maiden  shrunk  from  that  withered  form,  with  her  hands 
clasped  on  her  bosom,  and  felt  her  blood  grow  chill,  as  she  encountered 
the  glance  of  those  mild  blue  eyes. 

»'  Do  not  fear  me,  maiden.  I  am  an  old  man — a  poor  withered  frame 
— and  a  brain,  eqten  by  much  toil,  and  the  labors  of  long  and  dreary  win- 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


31 


ters.  Passing  through  the  woods,  I  witnessed  the  scene  between  you 
and  this  aged  Indian  :  indeed  I  saw  him  gasp  his  last,  as  I  was  about  to 
come  to  his  aid. — I  will  secure  Christian  burial  for  his  corse." — 

"  Do  not — do  not  touch  him  !"  cried  Madeline,  rushing  forward,  as  the 
hands  of  the  old  man  were  placed  upon  the  arms  of  the  dead  Indian — 
"  For  the  sake  of  God,  do  not  place  your  hands  upon  him.  For  they 
say" — a  shudder  pervaded  her  form  "  they  say,  that  you" — 

"  What  do  they  speak  ill  of  me  ?"  asked  the  old  man,  raising  his  mild 
eyes — "  Of  me  !  A  poor  old  withered  man,  who  lives  apart  from  the  great 
world,  and  cares  not  for  its  idle  uproar,  nor  for  its  petty  joys  ?" 

"  They  say,  that  you  have  sold  yourself  to  the  Enemy  of  Mankind," — 
gasped  Madeline,  her  eyes  enchained,  against  her  will,  to  the  tranquil 
glance  of  the  stranger. 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  and  a  smile  stole  over  his  wrinkled  face — "  Never  heed 
such  fire-side  gossip,  my  good  girl.  Now  mark  me — I  will  take  the  dead 
body  of  your  friend — will  have  it  conveyed  to  my  house  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Wissahikon,  near  the  Schuylkill — and  bury  it,  with  all  the 
rites  of  Christian  burial. — Does  that  look  like  the  act  of  one  who  is  sold 
to  the  Devil  ?" 

"  But  let  Yoconok  rest  among  his  woods  and  trees.  What  need  of  a 
cold  graveyard  for  him  ?  Let  him  be  buried  among  his  pines,  where  the 
Song  of  the  Wissahikon  will  cheer  his  slumber,  and  a  granite  rock  will 
pillow  his  head." — 

The  Maiden,  in  her  earnestness,  advanced  and  laid  her  hand  upon  the 
"Wizard's"  shoulder. 

11  Yoconok  shall  go  with  me  !"  he  calmly  said.  "  He  has  no  friends  ; 
I  will  be  his  friend,  after  he  is  dead.    Hah  !  What  is  this  I  see  ?" 

With  a  sudden  gesture  he  seized  the  white  hand,  -which  rested  on  his 
shoulder,  and — his  blue  eyes  dilating  until  they  seemed  fired  with  mad- 
ness— turned  the  palm  towards  the  fire : 

"  No  Bridal  ring  shall  ever  cross  this  hand  !  No  child  shall  ever  bless 
your  sight !  I  read  it,  in  the  lustre  of  your  eye,  which  is  lighted  with 
the  fire  of  a  changeless  Destiny  !  Alas  !  Alas  !  I  pity  and  I  rejoice  !  Dis- 
honor and  a  Sudden  Death  will  soon  be  yours  !" 

"  It  is  false  !"  gasped  Madeline,  her  cheek  pale  as  marble— "  In  the 
name  of  God,  who  loves  us  all,  I  defy  your  Master,  who  only  hates  and 
cannot  love  !" 

She  covered  her  face,  and  stood  with  her  head  bowed,  near  the  fire. 
The  old  man  gazed  upon  her  trembling  form  with  a  look  of  overwhelm- 
ing compassion,  which  was  soon  displaced  by  an  expression  of  singular 
triumph.  There  was  an  unnatural  joy  in  his  parting  lips,  his  eyes  spark- 
ling with  lifht,  his  face  flushed  with  crimson. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  ;  a  silence,  unbroken  by  a  whisper,  deepened 
the  interest  of  the  scene. 


32 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


M  Pity  me  !"  cried  Madeline,  as  she  raised  her  eyes — "  Do  not  doom 
me  to  an  early  death,  and  of  all  deaths,  ah  !  I  dare  not  speak  it !" 

Isaac  did  not  answer;  still  the  mingled  expression  of  triumph  and 
pity  agitated  his  aged  features. 

tS  Come  hither,  Black  David,"  said  Isaac  the  Wizard,  turning  toward  the 
darker  recesses  of  the  covert — "  Take  this  body  and  bear  it  to  my  house. 
Dost  hear?" 

From  the  shadows  advanced  a  form,  which  Madeline — already  appalled 
by  the  words  of  the  old  man — beheld  with  indescribable  fear. 

It  was  a  miserable  wreck  of  humanity,  not  more  than  four  feet  in 
height,'  with  the  crooked  limbs  trembling  beneath  the  huge  body,  the 
back  rising  in  a  shapeless  hump,  and  the  long,  unnatural,  we  had  almost 
said,  horse-like  face,  resting  on  the  breast,  and  hidden  beneath  a  shaggy 
mass  of  straight  black  hair. 

"  Y-e-e-s,  Master  !  I'se  here  !    What  wouldst  do  with  'un  ?" 
From  that  mass  of  hair,  two  large  eyes  shot  a  strange  unnatural  gleam, 
as  the  fire,  rising  in  a  sudden  flame,  tinted  with  strong  light,  the  grotesque 
points  of  this  deformed  figure. 

He  was  clad  in  a  coarse  garb,  a  kind  of  mantle,  wrapping  the  deep 
chest  and  the  protuberant  hump,  with  the  arms  appearing  from  its  folds, 
covered  with  loose  sleeves  of  dark  cloth.  His  straight  black  hair,  falling 
in  tangled  masses,  formed  the  only  covering  for  his  head. 

Strange  to  say,  the  hands  were  small,  white  and  delicate,  presenting  a 
strong  contrast  to  the  chaotic  physical  vigor  of  the  deformed  man. 

"  Take  the  body  of  Yoconok — dost  hear  me  ?  I  would  give  him  Chris- 
tian burial.    Bear  it  to  my  mansion.    I  will  reward  you.    Go  !" 

Madeline  for  a  moment  seemed  deprived  of  all  power  of  motion  or 
speech.  All  the  wild  legends  which  she  had  heard,  concerning  the  old 
man,  Isaac  the  Wizard,  and  his  Familiar  Spirit,  Black  David,  crowded  on 
her  brain  ;  she  felt  a  creeping  awe  pervade  her  veins  and  pale  her  cheek. 

In  this  pale-faced  old  man,  she  beheld  a  Servant  of  the  Evil  one ;  in 
the  poor  wretch,  whose  physical  deformity  was  at  once  hideous  and  piti- 
able, she  saw  an  Incarnate  Demon.  . 

Such  was  the  Superstition  of  the  olden  time,  when  every  old  woman, 
not  remarkable  for  personal  beauty,  was  burned  as  a  Witch,  and  old  men, 
not  regular  in  attendance  at  Meeting,  and  somewhat  given  to  burning  can- 
dles late  at  night,  were  choketl  to  death,  as  Wizards. — 
"  Do  not  touch  him  !    He  was  my  friend  !" 

Madeline  started  forward,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  the  arm  of  the 
wizard.  A  faint  smile  was  visible  on  the  old  man's  face  ;  he  regarded 
for  a  moment  her  countenance,  glowing  with  an  intensity  of  fear,  and 
then  taking  her  arm  gently  within  his  own,  led  her  from  the^kre.  . 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  the  wood  is  cfark,  the  way  lonely.  I  will  wait 
upon  you  to  the  farm-house  door.    Come — never  fear  me  !    They  tell 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  33 

sad  stories  of  my  life,  I  hear— and,  ha,  ha  !  poor  Black  David  here,  is 
linked  with  me,  in  an  infernal  compact !  Come — there  is  more  wizard  craft 
in  those  black  eyes  of  thine,  than  in  all  my  lore. — Remember,  David !" 

He  led  the  trembling  girl — who  looked  up  into  his  face  with  some- 
thing of  reverence  for  his  age,  more  of  fear  for  his  supernatural  character, 
manifested  in  her  gaze — he  led  her  into  the  shadows  of  the  covert,  and 
the  light  streamed  over  the  mangled  deer,  the  dead  chieftain,  and  the  de- 
formed man. 

Through  the  meshes  of  his  tangled  hair,  he  gazed  after  the  old  man 
and  the  maiden,  and  then,  like  a  beast  on  its  haunches,  crouched  beside 
the  fire,  his  white  hands  supporting  his  cheeks,  while  his  elbows  rested 
on  his  knees. 

The  hair  was  swept  aside  from  his  face,  and  his  features  appeared 
distinctly,  in  the  ruddy  fire-light. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  face  was  hideous,  and  its  unnatural  length, 
the  manner  in  which  it  seemed  to  rest  directly  on  the  chest,  made  the 
resemblance  which  it  bore  to  the  head  of  a  horse,  more  palpable  and 
repulsive. 

The  brow  was  heavy ;  the  nose  long  and  thin,  the  mouth  small,  the 
chin  round  and  full  ;  the  eyes  deep-set  and  full  of  intense  light.  Such 
was  the  general  character  of  that  face,  with  the  hair  falling  in  thick 
straight  masses  on  either  side  ;  but  the  sudden  glow  of  the  fire  made  the 
cheek-bones  seem  unnaturally  prominent,  the  hollow  beneath  more  deep 
and  cavernous,  and  gave  the  brow  a  bolder  outline,  the  lips  a  more  decided 
scorn,  the  eyes  a  wilder  light. 

He  crouched  by  the  fire,  his  distorted  form  darkly  defined  against  the 
snow-mantled  earth.  The  pine-branches  above  bent  slowly  to  the 
winter  blast,  and  the  massy  trees  around,  glowed  from  black  into  crimson. 

Spreading  forth  his  hands,  which  looked  as  white  and  delicate  as  the 
marble  hands  of  a  sculptured  Venus,  he  seemed  absorbed  in  his  own 
wandering  thoughts. 

He  spoke ;  the  echo  of  his  voice  broke  the  deep  silence,  with  a  start- 
ling emphasis,  and  yet  that  voice  was  soft,  thrilling  and  musical,  as  the 
tones  of  a  beautiful  woman. 

"  Three  hundred  years — it  is  a  wilderness  of  strange  memories  !"  thus 
he  murmured,  without  the  slightest  indication  of  ignorance  or  vulgarity  in 
his  manner  or  his  language — "  In  truth,  it  is  a  long  while  to — look  back  ! 
There  was  the  bluff  Harry,  renowned  for  the  number  of  his  wives,  and 
the  establishment  of  the  Reformation.  Pale-faced  Edward,  too  young 
to  be  criminal ;  Lady  Grey,  who  passed  from  the  throne  to  the  block  ; 
Mary  called  Bloody,  and  Elizabeth  called  Virgin  ;  James  the  Pedant; 
Charles  the  Martyr  and  Charles  the  Libertine — all  are  gone  long  ago. 
Dust  and  ashes,  despite  their  fine  linen  and  royal  blood.  Yet  I  see 
them  all  again,  see  them  as  plainly  as  when— Tut !  Tut  !M 

3 


3i  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

He  glanced  around  the  covert,  with  his  deep-set  eyes  kindling  in  a 
more  vivid  light :  v 

"They  may  hear  me — call  me  Madman — ho!  ho!  Then  to  the 
prison  or  the  scaffold  with  the  old  dotard  !  Three  hundred  years  !  A 
great  while  to  live,  but  wearisome,  very,  very  wearisome  !  To  see  one- 
century  whirling  along,  bubbling  and  frothing  just  like  the  others,  and 
only  bubbling  and  frothing  with  a  more  pitiful  uproar  as  it  goes  down  in 
the  great  abyss,  called  Time  Past,  which  has  swallowed  up  the  Dead 
Ages  !    I  am  weary  of  it  all,  and" — 

The  body  of  the  Indian  Chief,  resting  stiff  and  motionless  in  the 
warmth  of  the  fire,  met  his  gaze. 

"  He  sleeps  well  !    But  as  for  me" — 

And  as  he  bent  his  face  nearer  to  the  fire,  and  clasped  his  white  hands, 
as  in  a  gesture  of  supplication,  it  might  be  seen  that  there  were  tears  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Deformed  Maniac. 


CHAPTER  THIRD. 

THE  FARM-HOUSE. 

"  Come,  folks,  help  yourselves  !  It's  the  last  night  of  the  Old  Year, 
and  we'll  send  the  dull  old  fellow  to  his  grave,  with  a  hearty  store  of 
good  things  under  his  belt,  and  a  bowl  of  good  liquor  to  make  him  sleep 
easy  !  Some  of  the  turkey,  Parson  ?  Hey  !  How  are  you  comin'  on 
down  there,  at  'tother  end  of  the  table  ?  Try  a  slice  of  this  ham,  neigh- 
bor Spurtzelditscher  ? — a-h  !  There's  fat  and  lean  !  By  Thun-der  ! 
You  see,  neighbor,  I  swear  in  English  !  I  sometimes  wish  I  could  swear 
in  Dutch.  There's  something  that  stirs  the  heart,  in  a  solid,  deep-chested 
Dutch  oath!  Now  then,  who's  for  the  cider? — a-h,  that's  the  stuff! 
hisses  and  froths  like  an  old  maid,  who  has  been  caught  lying  about  her 
neighbors— the  rale  October  juice  of  the  red-streaked  Spitzenberger,  as 
I'm  an  honest  man  !" 

The  old  man,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  raised  the  hot  poker  with  one 
hand,  while  the  other  rested  upon  the  edge  of  the  broad  bowl,  which  was 
filled  to  the  brim  with  the  steaming  cider.  It  was  a  curious-looking 
bowl,  fashioned  of  some  strange  wood,  hard  as  iron,  with  an  uncouth 
name,  and  crowded  all  around  its  capacious  sides  with  carvings  of  the 
most  grotesque  character. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  35 

He  was  an  old  man,  but  you  must  not  picture  to  yourself  a  spare  form, 
or  lantern  jaws,  or  eyes  bleared  and  glassy. 

Beneath  the  ample  folds  of  his  brown  waistcoat,  a  rotundity  that  would 
have  made  the  fortunes  of  a  dozen  Aldermen,  was  hidden ;  his  hair,  eye- 
brows and  long  beard,  were  all  white  as  snow,  yet  his  round  cheeks 
glowed  with  tints  as  warm  and  rosy,  as  those  which  make  an  unbroiled 
sirloin  steak  look  lovely  in  the  eyes  of  a  good  liver.  The  eyebrows 
were  white,  as  though  the  snow  had  fallen  on  his  forehead,  and  hung 
there  for  a  moment,  ere  it  melted  before  the  summer  of  his  cheeks.  And 
yet,  from  beneath  those  shaggy  outlines,  two  eyes,  very  small,  very  black, 
and  piercing  as  daggers'  points,  glittered  like  newly  lighted  coals.  Al- 
together it  was  a  face  that  would  have  warmed  a  hungry  man,  with  its 
plump  outline,  and  unctuous  look,  to  say  nothing  of  the  nose,  which  shone 
like  a  huge  red  pear,  ripening  in  the  autumnal  sun. 

As  to  the  form  of  the  old  man,  it  would  have  scared  a  famine  into 
nothingness,  by  its  very  picture  of  eloquent  fatness.  His  broad  shoul- 
ders, his  sinewy  arms,  his  chest  that  shook  with  laughter,  deep  and  so- 
norous, beneath  the  lace  ruffles  of  his  shirt,  his  hands  round  and  plump, 
glowing  to  the  very  finger  tips  with  corpulence, — ah,  he  was  a  hale  old 
fellow,  who  seemed  to  grow  younger  with  time,  and  catch  new  bloom  on 
his  cheeks,  from  the  very  icicles  of  age. 

He  was  seated  in  his  great  arm-chair,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  which 
extended  along  the  sanded  floor,  from  the  fire-place  to  the  doorway.  In 
one  hand  he  raised  the  poker,  with  its  blazing  point ;  in  the  other  he 
grasped  the  corpulent  bowl,  frothing  to  the  brim  with  fragrant  cider. 

"  Your  health,  my  good  folks  !  A-a-h  !"  with  a  sigh  of  deep  satisfac- 
tion— "  That's  the  stuff  to  warm  the  heart  and  set  the  brain  a-fire  !  And., 
while  I  think  o't,  here's  a  health  to  his  Majesty,  King  George  !" 

As  he  set  down  the  bowl,  he  slightly  inclined  his  head  to  one  side,  and 
smoothing  down  his  white  beard,  with  his  plump  fingers,  he  glanced  with 
one  eye  half-closed,  along  the  well-filled  board. 

It  was  an  interesting  scene.  In  the  foreground,  a  huge  turkey,  brown 
and  smoking ;  the  view  was  lengthened  out  with  a  savory  panorama  of 
boiled  ham,  chickens  and  venison,  interspersed  with  white  pyramids  of 
home-made  bread,  and  bowls  of  steaming  cider.  This  long  table,  groan- 
ing under  the  weight  of  substantial  cheer,  was  framed  by  the  faces  of 
some  twenty-five  or  thirty  guests.  Here  the  parson,  with  his  red  face 
glowing  between  his  black  cap  and  blacker  gown :  there  the  portly 
farmer,  with  bony  hands  and  iron  frame  ;  yonder  a  group  of  rosy-cheeked 
country  girls,  and  beyond  them,  a  Philadelphia  lawyer,  lank  as  a  bean- 
pole and  devouring  as  a  Famine.  The  clatter  of  knives  and  forks  deaf- 
ened the  ears,  and  was  only  interrupted  by  a  chorus,  something  like  this  : 

"A  little  more  of  the  ham  !"  cried  the  Parson  ;  "red  lean  and  white 
fat — very — " 


36  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"Some  of  the  chicken,  Dolly  ?"  exclaimed  a  gallant  country  beau  — 

"legs  or  breast  ?" 

n  Cider  ?  Your  health,  neighbor !  Royal  stuff,  that !"  was  the  re- 
mark of  a  city  merchant,  whose  broadcloth  shone  beside  the  country 
home-spun — "  Did  you  say,  you  would  like  a  piece  of  this  chicken  ?" 

"  The  salt,  if  you  please.  A  little  ham.  There.  Some  turkey,  A 
touch  of  that  rabbit.  Thank  you  for  the  corn-beef.  Pass  the  venison. 
Cider— yes,  sir,  cider.  Health,  sir.  Little  more  ham  !  Pass  the  pepper. 
Some  more  turkey — no  !    Just  a  hint  of  that  'possum." 

This  was  the  Philadelphia  lawyer,  whose  knife  and  fork  seemed  im- 
pelled by  a  mechanical  power  of  unknown  capacities,  while  his  plate 
went  round  the  orbit  of  the  table  like  a  planet,  somewhat  hasty  and 
irregular  in  its  motions.  His  lank  jaws  were  never  still.  He  seemed  to 
have  been  placed  upon  this  earth,  only  to  solve  a  great  problem,  to  wit, 
how  much  can  a  man  devour  whose  body  resembles  a  lath  or  a  bean-pole, 
and  how  long  will  it  require  for  him  to  eat  himself  into  an  apoplexy  ? 

"  Dat  rabbit  ish  nish !  Mein  Gott !  Neighbor  Perkenpine  !"  was 
the  remark  of  Neighbor  Spurtzelditscher,  a  short,  thick,  brown-faced 
farmer,  in  linsey-wolsey,  who  was  commonly  called  "  Spurtz"  for  the 
sake  of  brevity  and  an  easy  life. 

Two  farmers  sat  beside  each  other,  engaged  in  earnest  conversation, 
which  it  must  be  confessed  was  carried  on  with  perseverance  and  ingenu- 
ity, worthy  of  a  wider  field.  You  may  see  them,  near  the  lower  end  of 
the  table,  both  very  old  men,  alike  thin,  withered  and  greyhaired,  and 
attired  in  linsey-wolsey.  The  one  this  way,  cannot  speak  a  syllable  of 
any  language  but  English,  and  his  friend  understands  never  a  word,  that 
is  not  spoken  in  German.  But  still,  with  all  these  obstacles,  which  to 
the  vulgar  mind  might  appear  insurmountable,  they  maintain  a  very  in- 
telligible, nay,  interesting  conversation. 

Neighbor  Wampole,  the  farmer  who  speaks  English  and  English  only, 
poises  the  white  breast  of  a  chicken  on  his  fork,  gazes  intently  in  his 

neighbor's  face,  and  utters  distinctly  his  condensed  opinion  

11  Good /"  he  cries,  and  the  chicken  disappears. 

To  this  emphatic  remark,  neighbor  Schneider,  who  cannot  speak  a 
word,  that  is  not  German,  replies  by  elevating  a  savory  slice  of  the 
opossum,  and  displaying  it  for  a  moment  before  his  neighbor's  eyes; 
after  which  he  significantly  remarks — 

"Goot!"  and  the  opossum  vanishes. 

The  bowls  are  touched  ;  one  drinks  to  the  other's  health  ;  again  that 
significant  glance,  and  again  that  interesting  interchange  of  thought— 

"Good/" 
"Goot!" 

Near  these  intelligent  and  communicative  neighbours,  and  opposite  the 
parson,  was  seen  a  gentleman  of  some  forty  years,  remarkable  for  his 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  VVISSAHIKON. 


G7 


immense  wig,  with  flowing  flaxen  curls,  his  velvet  coat,  silver  shoe- 
buckles,  and  prominent  nose,  curved  like  a  parrot's  beak.  This  was  the 
Doctor  of  the  country-side,  famous  for  the  potency  of  his  "  hum — ha  1" 
which  was  supposed  to  comprise  a  whole  encyclopaedia  of  medical  know- 
ledge, and  for  the  peculiarly  dexterous  application  of  his  gold-headed  cane 
to  the  side  of  his  nose. 

He  never  had  much  to  say,  and  on  the  present  occasion,  merely  in- 
terrupted the  important  duty  of  supper,  with  such  remarks  as — "  Soberly 
and  in  verity,  this  stewed  rabbit  is  a  tooth-some  dish  !" 

For  his  almost  unbroken  silence,  he  seemed  to  continually  apologize 
by  drinking  deep  draughts  of  the  steaming  cider.  Indeed,  a  superficial 
observer  of  human  nature  would  have  supposed,  at  first  sight,  that  the 
Doctor  was  in  liquor,  or  that  the  liquor  was  in  the  Doctor ;  for  his  head 
went  bobbing  from  side  to  side  like  a  cork  on  a  wave,  and  he  brushed 
imaginary  flies  from  the  tip  of  his  nose,  with  great  energy  and  perse- 
verance. 

And  while  the  supper-party  went  gayly  on  by  the  light  of  the  home- 
made candles,  which  were  placed  along  the  board,  there  was  a  fire  of 
huge  logs,  blazing  and  crackling  within  the  broad  arch  of  the  spacious 
hearth. 

The  light  of  that  roaring  fire  fell  in  crimson  flashes  over  the  faces  of 
the  guests,  and  lighted  up  with  its  hearty  glow  every  nook  and  corner  of 
the  farm-house  hall. 

Would  you  like  to  look  upon  that  Picture  of  Comfort  in  the  Olden 
Time? 

Then  strip  your  imagination  of  all  modern  ideas,  and  prepare  for  a 
picture  of  1774,  as  widely  contrasted  with  1847,  as  a  hale  old  Revolu- 
tionary soldier,  with  his  rosy  cheeks  and  snow-white  hair,  compares  with 
a  Chesnut  Street  dandy,  remarkable  only  for  his  slim  waist  and  sublime- 
ly insipid  face. 

Do  not  expect  to  behold  any  thing  like  imported  carpet  on  the  floor. 
No  carpets  from  Brussels  or  from  Smyrna  conceal  the  sanded  boards, 
nor  are  the  walls  covered  with  hangings  of  French  paper.  There  are 
no  chairs  with  narrow  seats  and  dangerous  backs,  looking  like  chairs 
that  never  were  healthy,  but  stricken  with  consumption  from  the  mo- 
ment of  their  birth.  Nor  is  there  any  diminutive  stove,  glaring  with  the 
pestilence  of  anthracite;  nor  do  you  behold  tables  with  marble  tops,  or 
mantel-pieces,  unworthy  of  the  name,  adorned  with  showy  lamps,  or  win- 
dows with  Venitian  blinds,  and  sills  as  narrow  as  a  bigot's  soul. 

Look  around  this  farm-house  hall  and  see  what  comfort  was  like,  in 
the  olden  time. 

The  light  ef  the  great  hearth-fire  sparkles  upon  the  sanded  floor,  and 
glows  along  those  huge  rafters  which  support  the  ceiling.  The  walls 
are  white  as  snow,  and  the  window-frames  deep-sunken  and  capacious* 


38 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM ;  OR, 


In  one  corner  stands  the  cupboard,  painted  blue,  and  glittering  with  a 
store  of  burnished  pewter  ;  opposite  you  discern  the  old  clock,  with  its 
round  Dutch  face,  and  its  new  moon  rising  over  a  broken  cloud. 

But  the  hearth  is  decidedly  the  centre  of  the  picture.  It  looks  like  a 
great  sacrificial  fire  built  beneath  some  pagan  archway.  Above  the  arch 
hangs  a  rifle,  resting  on  the  antlers  of  the  wild  deer,  and  within  the  re- 
cess on  either  side  of  the  fire,  benches  of  substantial  oak  are  placed. 

A  blind  negro  sits  on  the  bench  to  the  right,  his  fingers  outspread  to- 
ward the  flame,  which  imparts  its  red  glow  to  his  ebony  features,  and 
reveals  the  fiddle  laid  with  its  bow  across  his  knees. 

Opposite  is  seated  a  corpulent  old  dame,  whose  black  face  is  contrast- 
ed with  a  flaming  red  handkerchief  wound  about  the  temples,  while  her 
withered  hands  are  crossed  upon  her  linsey  dress. 

"  I  say,  Phillisey,  dis  am  comfor'bl'  !" 

"  It  ar,  Sam,  you  blind  nig gar  /" 

Near  the  hearth,  seated  on  huge  arm-chairs,  behold  three  white  dames, 
whose  rotund  forms  and  full-moon  faces,  do  not  indicate  any  deprivation 
of  the  comforts  of  life.  Their  heads  bent  together,  their  white  caps 
touching  each  other,  they  pass  the  snuff-box,  and  converse  in  earnest 
whispers. 

"  It  is  a  strange  world,  Betsy  !" 

"  And,  Nancy,  we've  all  got  to  die — sometime .'" 

"  But,  Sally,  it  was  not  so  when  I  was  a  girl  !" 

You  will  at  once  perceive,  that  their  conversation  is  of  the  most  inte- 
resting character.  The  snuff-box  passes,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  old 
ladies  take  a  different  turn. 

«  Queer  world  !    Laws-a-massy,  Betz  !" 

"  We  must  all  go  !    'Dust  to  dust,'  as  the  Parson  sez  I" 

"  When  I  was  a  girl  " 

But  at  this  moment  of  absorbing  interest  the  conversation  is  interrupted 
by  the  bluff,  hearty  tones  of  the  host : 

"  I  say,  Parson,  did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  Old  Hontz  and  his 
New  Year's  supper  ?" 

By  way  of  commanding  attention,  he  brought  the  handle  of  his  knife 
upon  the  table,  with  all  the  force  of  his  right  arm. 

"  Never  did  !"  responded  the  Parson,  from  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
as  he  raised  a  dainty  piece  of  rabbit  to  his  lips. 

"  Nor  you,  Lawyer  Simmons  ?  Nor  you,  Doctor  Perkenpine  ?  Hello  ! 
Did  none  of  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  Old  Hontz  tand  his  New  Year's 
supper  ?" 

For  a  moment  the  great  work  of  eating  and  drinking  was  suspended. 
At  least  twenty  faces  were  turned  toward  the  jovial  host.  There  was  a 
wicked  twinkle  in  the  old  fellow's  half-closed  eyes,  and  even  the  inclina- 
tion of  his  head  to  one  side  looked  suspicious. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  39 

"  Never  heard  the  story,  friend  Peter  !"  was  the  burden  of  twenty 
voices. 

The  old  man  settled  himself  easily  in  his  huge  chair,  smoothed  his 
white  beard  with  his  fat  fingers,  and  took  a  hearty  draught  of  cider. 
Then,  taking  a  pipe  from  a  side  pocket,  he  quietly  tilled  the  bowl  with 
tobacco,  lighted  it  at  the  candle,  and  resting  comfortably  in  his  chair, 
seemed  at  peace  with  all  the  world,  as  the  smoke  floated  in  wreaths 
around  his  red  face. 

"  As  you're  all  done  supper,  I'd  like  to  tell  you  the  story.  It's  a  short 
story,  but  very,  very  good  ;  especially  to  those,  who  have  eaten  heartily 
of  stewed  rabbit.    Talkin'  o'  rabbit,  how  d'ye  like  it,  Parson  ?" 

"  I  have  feasted  plentifully  upon  this  dish,  friend  Peter,"  replied  the 
Parson. 

"  It  is  savory — very  toothsome,"  echoed  the  Doctor. 
**  Could  not  be  better  !  where  did  you  get  the  rabbits  ?"  inquired  the 
lawyer. 

"ThaVs  the  fun  of  it,  Lawyer  Simmons.  Where  did  I  get  the  rabbits  ? 
ThaVs  the  very  cream  of  the  joke.  Now  mark  me,  everybody  here, 
when  I've  told  my  story,  they  will  be  sorry  that  they  did  not  try  the 
stewed  rabbit.  For,  as  you  will  see,  this  story  is  apt  to  give  one  a  rave- 
nous taste  for  stewed  rabbit  " 

"  But  concerning  this  unknown  person  whom  you  call  Old  Hontz  ?" 
suggested  the  Parson. 

"  I  want  you  all  to  be  very  still,  while  I  tell  this  story.  G-a-ls  ! 
(turning  to  the  three  corpulent  dames,)  stop  babbling  and  listen  !"  The 
guests  were  all  attention  ;  you  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop.  "  Once  upon 
a  time,  there  lived  a  jolly  old  fellow  named  Hontz,  who  had  a  house  in  a 
woods,  and  was  well-to-do  in  the  world  ;  his  neighbors  almost  died  of 
spite,  when  they  looked  at  his  barn,  or  saw  his  sleek  cattle.  He  was 
rich,  was  old  Hontz,  and  fond  of  fun,  and  of  a  glass  !  But  he  was  a 
bachelor.  Therefore  every  gossip  in  the  neighborhood  lied  about  him — 
lied  murderously,  telling  strange  stories  of  Old  Hontz,  the  rare  jovial 
fellow.  They  said  he  gained  his  money — not  from  his  farm,  or  his 
horses,  or  his  oxen,  or  his  cows — but  in  unheard-of-ways,  horrible  to 
think  of,  and  most  dreadful  to  tell.  Now,  among  those  neighbors,  there 
weje  three  persons,  who  fed  at  the  old  fellow's  table,  and  drank  of  his 
cider,  and  yet  lied  more  horribly  about  him,  than  all  the  world  to- 
gether " 

The  jovial  Peter  paused,  and  smoothed  his  beard,  emitting  a  volume 
of  smoke,  as  he  glanced  over  the  faces  of  the  wondering  guests.  Even 
the  three  aged  dames  by  the  fire  bent  forward,  in  attitudes  of  absorbing 
interest,  and  the  old  Negro  in  the  chimney  corner  remarked,  in  an  under- 
tone, to  Phillisey — "Berry  bad  neighbors,  dem  !" 

"  Now  one  of  these  persons  was  a  lawyer  " 


40 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  Su-r-e  !"  exclaimed  lawyer  Simmons,  dropping  his  cider  bowl. 
"  One  a  doctor  " 

"  Remarkable  !"  and  the  Doctor,  in  his  surprise,  permitted  a  savory 
slice  of  rabbit  to  fall  from  his  fingers. 
"  And  the  other  was  a  parson  V9 

"  A  parson?  Eh  !  Neighbor  Peter  ?"  cried  the  Parson,  rubbing  his 
nose,  and  fixing  the  black  cap  more  firmly  on  his  head. 

"  Yes— by  !    The  lawyer,  the  doctor  and  the  parson,  who  fed  at 

the  old  fellow's  table,  and  drank  of  his  cider,  never  spoke  of  him,  save 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  or  a  wink  of  the  eye,  and  it  may  be,  some 
such  kind  remark  as  this — 'A  very  clever  old  fellow,  who  lives  in  the 
woods  alone,  but1 — here  was  the  sore  point — '  Where  does  he  get  all  his 
money  V  " 

It  was  a  very  interesting  thing,  to  remark  the  twinkle  of  neighbor 
Peter's  half-closed  eye,  as  he  paused  again  in  his  story. 

A  singular  silence  had  fallen  on  the  supper  guests  ;  they  gazed  in  each 
other's  faces,  and  then  cast  their  eyes  down  upon  their  folded  hands. 

"Now,  do  you  want  to  know  how  this  jolly  old  fellow  (with  a  white 
beard  and  a  great  round  paunch,  mark  ye)  revenged  himself  ?  He  knew 
the  doctor,  the  lawyer,  the  parson,  to  be  very  fond  of  good  eating,  but  of 
all  kinds  of  eating,  stewed  rabbit,  and  of  all  kinds  of  stewed  rabbit — " 

The  story  began  to  be  very  interesting.  Why  it  was  we  cannot  tell, 
but  certainly  the  greater  portion  of  the  guests  began  to  cast  stealthy 
glances  at  the  doctor,  the  lawyer  and  the  parson,  who  sat  among  them,  at 
the  supper-board. 

<<  Yes — you  were  saying — "  hesitated  the  Parson.  The  Doctor  ar- 
ranged his  flowing  wig,  with  a  somewhat  nervous  movement,  and  the  lank 
face  of  the  lawyer  was  lengthened  out,  by  an  expression  of  apathetic 
wonder,  most  ludicrous  to  behold. 

"  And  of  all  kinds  of  stewed  rabbit,  they  most  admired  that  kind  of 
stewed  rabbit,  which  is  smothered  in  onions  " 

The  jovial  host  took  a  hearty  puff  at  his  pipe,  and  placed  the  cider  to 
his  lips,  coolly  remarking — 

"  There's  my  story.    What  d'ye  think  o't,  anyhow  ?" 

It  was  wonderful  to  behold  the  amazement  pictured  on  the  faces  of  the 
guests.    A  dead  silence  prevailed. 

"  What  d'ye  think  of  it,  I  say  ?"  and  the  bluff  Peter  rapped  the  taffle 
with  the  handle  of  his  knife. 

"  Dat  is  no  shtory  at  all !"  faintly  remarked  neighbor  Spurtzelditscher. 

"I  confess,  I  do  not  see  its  point — "  the  lawyer  exclaimed. 

«  Nor  its  wit — •"  added  the  parson. 

"  In  soberness,  and  in  truth,  I  can't  see  what  you  are  driving  at !" 
The  doctor  turned  his  parrot  nose,  and  looked  his  host  full  in  the  face. 
"  Why,  how  stupid  you  are  !    Don't  you  see  that  the  jolly  old  fellow 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


41 


with  a  beard  like  a  snow-drift,  and  a  paunch  round  as  a  punkin,  made  a 
great  supper,  one  New  Year's  Eve,  and  invited  the  doctor,  the  parson, 
the  lawyer,  to  come  and  eat  stewed  rabbit,  smothered  in  onions  ?" 

The  Parson  blushed  to  the  tips  of  his  ears,  while  the  Doctor  looked 
in  his  plate,  and  the  lawyer  described  lines  on  the  table  with  his  fork. 

"  Dat  ish  better  !"  cried  Spurtzelditscher — "  Yah  !  y-a-h  !  Dat  ish 
goot !" 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Peter  Dormer,"  exclaimed  the  Parson  with  marked  po- 
liteness— "  I  must  confess  that  I  don't  see  the  point  of  your  story." 

"Nor  I '.    Nor  1 1"  chorussed  the  Doctor  and  the  Lawyer. 

A  faint  smile  began  to  steal  over  the  faces  of  the  other  guests. 

"  But  you  will  presently.  I  know  you  love  a  good  story,  Parson,  and 
I'm  sure,  the  lawyer  and  doctor  don't  love  any  thing  better,  except  good 
living  or  fat  fees.  Soh,  my  hearties,  I  will  tell  you  the  point  of  the 
joke — while  the  doctor,  and  the  lawyer,  and  the  parson  were  eatin'  away 
like  so  many  buzzards,  and  a  thinkin'  that  they  were  eatin'  stewed  rabbit 
smothered  in  onions,  the  old  fellow,  that  jolly  dog  of  a  bachelor,  was 
laughin'  in  his  sleeve,  for — for — " 

"  Y-e-s" —  gasped  the  Parson,  bending  forward. 

"  For" — the  old  host,  even  Peter  Dorfner,  bent  forward  also,  his  little 
black  eyes  twinkling  with  a  sort  of  demoniac  glee — "  For  well  he  knew 
that  these  three  jovial  fellows  were  eatin' — eatin' — " 

"  E-a-ting — "  echoed  the  Doctor,  looking  over  his  spectacles.  The 
old  fellow  sank  back  in  his  chair,  and  resumed  his  pipe,  saying  mildly 
between  the  puffs  of  smoke — 

"Cats.  They  were  eatin'  cats  I  Fine  old  Toms,  which  the  old 
bachelor  had  caught  in  his  farm-yard,  killed  and  cooked — all  done  by 
himself— cats,  smothered  in  onions  !  Fine  dish,  gentlemen— -for  them  as 
likes  it.'* 

A  roar  like  thunder  shook  the  room.  It  was  the  sound  of  some 
twenty  boisterous  laughs,  joined  in  one.  For  a  moment  nothing  was 
seen  but  mouths  wide  open,  and  eyes  rolling  tears. 

With  one  movement  the  Doctor,  the  Parson  and  the  Lawyer  started  to 
their  feet. 

"Cats  !"  shrieked  the  Parson,  pitching  forward  with  a  sea-sick  move- 
ment— "Did  you  say  cats  ?" 

The  Doctor  uttered  a  horrible  oath. 

"  Feed  me — a  member  of  the  Faculty — me  !  on  cats  !"  He  shook 
his  clenched  fist  over  the  table.  "  You  shall  pay  for  this  !  You 
shall"— 

The  Lawyer  looked  around  with  a  very  sickly  attempt  at  a  smile. 
"  Neighbor  Wampole,  will  you  allow  me  to  pass  you  ?  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  want  a  little  fresh  air." 

"Why,  gentle-men!  what  is  the  matter?"  cried  the  corpulent  Peter 


42  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

Dorfner  from  his  good  arm-chair  at  the  head  of  the  table — "  The  incident 
does  not  allude  to  you.    Pooh  !    You  never  abused  me,  you" — 

But  a  fresh  explosion  of  laughter  drowned  his  words.  It  cannot  be 
denied  that  the  scene  was  in  the  highest  degree  picturesque.  There 
foamed  the  Doctor,  tearing  his  flaxen  wig,  in  very  despite,  while  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table,  the  Parson  still  continued  to  ask,  whether  Peter 
Dorfner  had  said  cats  ?  In  the  background,  Lawyer  Simmons'  lank 
face  was  visible,  pale  as  death,  and  distorted  by  convulsive  twitchings. 

And  around  the  table  were  the  guests,  convulsed  with  the  grotesque 
picture,  all  echoing  the  laugh,  until  the  rafters  shook  again.  Near  the 
fire  the  three  aged  dames  sat  motionless,  gasping  for  breath,  the  tears 
rolling  down  their  round  fat  cheeks. 

Within  the  chimney  the  Phillisey  with  the  red  handkerchief  round 
her  brow,  displayed  her  teeth — or  at  least,  all  that  time  had  spared  her — 
while  blind  Sam,  seated  in  the  opposite  corner,  seized  his  fiddle,  and 
played  several  tunes,  through  each  other,  and  all  together,  as  if  for  life. 

And  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  calm  and  smiling  sat  Peter  Dorfner, 
in  his  arm-chair,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  the  pipe  between  his  lips,  and 
volumes  of  pale  blue  smoke  wreathing  around  his  red  cheeks,  and  snow- 
white  hair. 

"Was  de  rabbit  fery  nish,  Toctor?" 

"  I  thought  you  ate  ray-iher  hearty,  Parson  !" 

"0  !  Lord  !  a  doctor,  a  parson  and  a  lawyer  sittin'  down  to  stewed  cats  !" 
"An'  sich  an  appeytite,  too!" 

While  these,  and  various  kindred  exclamations,  echoed  round  the 
room,  the  Doctor  quietly  left  his  seat  and  approached  the  head  of  the 
table.  There  was  a  wicked  light  in  his  pale  blue  eyes  ;  a  sort  of  deter- 
mined malice  in  the  very  compression  of  his  large  sensual  lips. 

Peter  Dorfner  received  him  with  a  calm  smile,  smoothing  down  his 
white  beard  with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"  This  is  very  w-ell !"  he  whispered,  bending  down,  until  the  curls  of 
his  wig  nearly  touched  the  cheek  of  Peter  :  "  A  fine  joke,  sir,  ve-r-y  fine  ! 
But  shall  I  tell  these  good  folks  a  finer  one  ?  Shall  I  tell  them  of  the 
twenty-third  of  November,  in  the  year  1756?" 

Swelling  with  rage,  he  shook  his  cane  in  the  old  farmer's  face. 

"  If  you  dare,"  Peter  remarked  in  a  whisper,  as  a  change  passed  over 
his  face,  as  sudden  as  it  was  startling.  He  grew  pale  ;  his  dark  eyes  flashed 
from  beneath  the  sleepy  lids.  His  right  hand  was  clenched  as  if  by  an 
involuntary  spasm. 

At  this  moment,  the  roar  of  laughter,  which  echoed  round  the  place, 
was  succeeded  by  a  cry  of  surprise. 

"  Madeline  !    Gilbert !"  resounded  from  every  lip. 

The  Doctor  leaned  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  and  saw  the  persons, 
who  that  moment  had  entered  the  room. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  43 

4T 

"Do  you  remember  her  Mother?"  he  whispered  the  words  into  the 
farmer's  ear. 

"Dare  yon  violate  the  Oath?"  was  the  response  uttered  by  the  old 
man,  through  his  clenched  teeth,  with  that  wicked  light  flashing  in  his 
eyes. 

And  while  this  singular  conversation  was  held  by  the  Doctor  and  the 
farmer,  the  guests,  starting  from  their  seats,  welcomed  the  new-comers 
with  many  a  hearty  though  rude  salutation. 

They  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  circle,  the  Hunter  and  the  Maiden,  their 
faces  glowing  in  the  light  of  the  hearthside  flame. 

She,  clad  in  her  peasant  garb,  which  could  not  altogether  conceal  the 
flowing  outlines  of  her  form,  nor  turn  your  gaze  away,  from  the  sad,  ten- 
der beauty  of  her  face.  Her  dark  hair,  swept  plainly  aside,  relieved  those 
firm  and  winning  features,  and  gaye  a  deeper  warmth  to  the  glow  of  her 
brown  cheeks,  the  voluptuous  redness  of  her  lips. 

By  her  side  the  Hunter  stood,  his  brawny  chest  and  gaunt,  sinewy  arms, 
presenting  a  strong  contrast  to  her  maidenly  form. 

Almost  a  giant  in  stature,  he  was  clad  in  a  hunting-frock,  dark  blue  in 
color,  and  edged  with  white  fur.  In  one  hand  he  grasped  the  Maiden's 
hand,  in  the  other  his  well-tried  rifle,  with  its  dark  tube,  and  mahogany 
stock,  relieved  by  ornaments  of  polished  silver.  He  wore  the  leggings 
and  moccasins  of  an  Indian ;  his  broad  chest  was  crossed  by  a  buckskin 
belt ;  on  one  side  of  his  waist  you  beheld  a  hunting-knife,  on  the  other  a 
powder-horn. 

But  it  was  not  on  his  attire,  but  his  face,  that  you  fixed  your  gaze. 

A  broad,  square  forehead,  a  straight,  firm  nose,  slightly  inclining  to  the 
aquiline,  a  mouth  somewhat  too  wide,  and  a  bold,  rugged  chin,  half-con- 
cealed by  a  brown  beard.  Such  was  the  Hunter's  face.  His  complexion 
had  once  been  fair  and  sanguine,  but  now  it  was  bronzed  by  exposure  to 
the  wind  and  sun,  the  toil  of  the  chase,  and — perchance — the  fever  of 
the  battle. 

Around  this  boldly  featured  face,  which  indicated,  at  first  sight,  a  bluff, 
honest  nature,  his  chesnut  hair  gathered  in  short,  luxuriant  curls. 

"  Come,  Parson ;  'cordin'  to  promise  I'm  here.  So  are  you.  So  is 
Mad'lin'.  We  want  you  to  say  a  few  words  from  a  book,  so  that  we  can 
go  an'  live  together  as  man  an'  wife." 

He  rested  one  arm  upon  his  rifle,  and  with  Madeline's  hand  clasped  in 
his  own,  confronted  the  New  Year's  guests. 

"  Yes — yes — I'll  be  there,  in  a  moment,"  cried  the  Minister  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table.  "  Cats  !"  he  added  in  an  undertone — 
"A-u-g-h  !   So  you  want  to  be  married,  Gilbert — eh  ?" 

With  the  book  in  his  hand,  he  stood  before  the  Hunter  and  his  pro- 
mised Wife,  now  fixing  his  eye  upon  the  almost  gigantic  form,  now  rest- 
ing his  glance  upon  the  Maiden,  whose  soft  brown  cheek  began  to 


44  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

glow  into  crimson,  while  her  white  teeth  were  seen,  through  the  parting 
lips. 

Her  eyes  were  downcast ;  the  black  fringes  rested  on  her  cheek.  Alto- 
gether, she  presented  an  appearance,  at  once  so  virginal  and  so  beautiful, 
in  her  humble  attire,  that  every  eye  was  enchained  with  the  sight. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  So  you're  goin'  to  be  married,  Madeline !"  laughed  the  jovial 
Peter  Dorfner,  as,  leaving  his  chair,  he  advanced  with  a  step  th^^ehowed 
at  once,  that  he  had  not  lost  any  vigor  of  nerve,  or  physical  power,  in  his 
increasing  corpulence.  "  Goin'  to  leave  the  old  Bachelor  alone  ?  Well 
— well — my  blessing  go  with  you,  at  any  rate  !" 

He  stood  behind  the  Parson,  a  pleasant  smile  agitating  his  round  cheeks, 
and  twinkling  under  his  half-shut  lids. 

But  the  maiden  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  or  answer  him  with  a  word. 
She  trembled;  yes,  they  could  see  her  bpsom  heave  from  beneath  the  ker- 
chief which  bound  it,  and  from  her  downcast  lids  a  single  tear  sparkled 
into  light. 

Did  she  remember  the  warning  words  of  old  Yoconok  ?  "  Yes,  Uncle 
Peter" — she  called  him  Uncle,  for  he  had  been  her  only  protector,  from 
the  hour  of  childhood — "  I  am — I  am." — 

Her  nether  lip  was  agitated  with  a  tremulous  motion ;  her  bosom  rose 
with  one  tumultuous  throb.  She  stood  silent  and  trembling,  her  down- 
cast eyes  filled  with  tears. 

The  rude  Hunter  by  her  side,  wound  his  iron  arm  about  her  waist : 

"  Mad'lin',  do  not  fear,"  he  whispered.  "  Don't  I  love  you,  gal  ?  I 
know  I'm  but  a  rude  fellow,  but  Gilbert  Morgan  will  never  see  harm 
come  to  you,  while  God  leaves  him  one  breath  in  his  big  body !  There 
now,  look  up,  and  let  the  Parson  say  his  words — " 

These  words  look  rude,  but  the  dark  hazel  eye  of  the  woodsman  lighted 
up  with  a  fiery  eloquence,  as  he  spoke,  and  his  voice — broken  by  a  tre- 
mor— indicated  strong  emotion. 

"  Well,  girl,  well,  I  can  only  say,  that  I  approve  of  this  marriage,  and 
hope  you'll  do  well,  wherever  you  go.  There — take  an  old  bachelor's 
blessing  on  your  head,  and  let  the  Parson  begin  ;  that's  a  good  girl." 

As  the  bluff  old  Peter  placed  his  fat  hands  upon  the  glossy  locks  of 
Madeline — his  face  all  the  while  overspread  with  smiling  wrinkles — the 
Doctor  drew  near,  and  bending  over  his  shoulder,  whispered  these  words  : 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  blessed  her  Mother  V* 

The  jovial  old  fellow  started,  as  though  a  snake  had  bitten  him  in  the 
throat ;  he  grew  pale,  and  then  red  again,  and  observed  with  one  of  his 
pleasant  smiles  : 

"  Oh — ho  !    Doctor  Perkenpine — always  at  your  fun  !" 

But  turning  suddenly  round,  he  darted  a  look  into  the  Doctor's  face 
which  had  something  beside  good  humor  in  its  sudden  fire.  m 

"  You'll  leave  the  old  man,  Madeline.    I  shall  be  alone  with  Phillisey 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON,  45 

and  Black  Sam.  While  one  scolds  the  'tother  will  fiddle — well,  well ! 
Get  married,  girl — Gilbert  will  make  a  good  husband  !" 

Why  did  the  Orphan  Girl  shrink  from  the  pressure  of  his  hands,  and 
turn  pale  and  gasp  for  breath  as  his  kindly  words  fell  on  her  ears  ? 

The  Parson  arranged  his  cap,  while  the  guests — stout  farmers,  and 
buxom  damsels — circled  about  the  Hunter  and  his  betrothed.  The  old 
dames  suspended  their  tattle,  Black  Sam  his  fiddle ;  even  the  lawyer  and 
the  doctor  forgot  their  unutterable  wrongs,  in  the  deep  interest  of  the  scene. 

"  You  love  Gilbert,"  he  kindly  whispered,  wishing  to  calm  the  Maiden, 
whose  agitation  was  perceptible. 

"  I  do  !"  said  a  soft,  low  voice,  that  was  scarcely  audible. 

Gilbert  felt  a  soft,  warm  hand,  return  the  pressure  of  his  rude  grasp, 
and  saw  that  the  face  upraised  to  meet  his  gaze,  shone  with  an  expres- 
sion of  calm  confidence  and  child-like  trust. 

"  You  are  mine,  Mad'lin',"  he  whispered,  bending  down  nearer  to  her, 
and  girdling  her  waist  with  his  brawny  arm. 

"  Yours — ever  !"  she  whispered,  and  then  continued,  in  a  tone  inaudi- 
ble to  her  lover — "  Yours  in  spite  of  the  warning  of  Yoconok — yours  in 
spite  of  my  own  heart!" 

"Hem!  Suppose  we  commence — "  said  the  Pastor,  making  a  great 
display  by  turning  over  the  leaves  of  his  Prayer-Book. 

At  this  moment,  the  farm-house  door — behind  the  girl  and  the  woods- 
man—  was  suddenly  opened. 

She  did  not  see  the  intruder,  but  she  heard  his  footstep. 

««  Save  me,  Gilbert !"  she  cried,  turning  deathly  pale — "  I  am  falling — " 

And  like  a  flower,  suddenly  snapt  on  its  stem,  she  sank,  and  lay  un- 
conscious at  her  lover's  feet,  her  eyes  closed,  her  form  as  motionless  as 
death. 

Gilbert  saw  her  sink,  so  pale  and  lifeless,  at  his  feet,  and  felt  the  blood 
whirling  in  a  torrent  through  his  brain.  He  turned  his  head  over  his 
shoulder ;  his  face  was  flushed  with  crimson  ;  his  hazel  eyes  discolored 
by  injected  blood  

"  0,  sir,  this  is  your  work !"  he  cried,  and  ere  an  instant,  the  hunting- 
knife  flashed  in  his  hand. 

A  mingled  cry  of  surprise  and  horror  echoed  from  every  lip.  There, 
before  the  half-opened  door,  stood  a  young  man,  clad  in  plain  grey,  his 
handsome  face  wearing  a  pleasant  smile,  as  he  brushed  the  snow  from 
his  curling  brown  hair.  Over  his  shoulder  appeared  a  red,  round  face, 
with  a  wide  mouth,  distorted  in  a  grotesque  grin. 

"What  mean  you,  Gilbert?"  cried  Uncle  Peter — "It  is  John  and  his 
friend  Jacob.  Surely,  your  senses  have  left  you.  Put  away  your  knife, 
and  greet  our  friends  with  a  New  Year's  welcome  !" 

As  the  corpulent  host  spoke,  he  laid  one  hand  gently  on  the  Hunter's 
arm,  and  greeted  the  strangers,  with  a  cordial  grasp. 


46  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

**  New  Year's  welcome  !"  growled  Gilbert,  as  his  flushed  face  writhed 
in  every  feature.  "  To  whom  ?  To  men  who  have  no  name  ?  For 
what?  For  poisoning  the  mind  of  this  innocent  girl — By  *  *  *  !  This 
is  my  welcome  !" 

Leaving  the  swooning  girl  extended  on  the  floor,  he  fiercely  turned, 
and  confronted  the  young  man,  whom  we  have  known  by  the  simple 
name  of  John. 

"  You  are  a  purty-built  fellow,  and,  I  guess,  know  how  to  fight ;" — his 
manner  was  taunting,  and  a  mocking  sneer  curled  his  lip — "  Do  you  see 
this  knife  ?" 

"  I  see  it,"  answered  John,  with  a  pleasant  smile  upon  his  handsome 
face, — "  It  seems  a  very  good  blade.    The  hilt,  I  believe,  is  bone." 

A  dead  silence  prevailed  ;  every  eye  was  centred  upon  the  young 
man  ;  the  contrast  between  the  huge  hunter  and  the  slender  stranger  was 
palpable. 

For  a  moment  they  surveyed  each  other,  while  Gilbert  clenched  the 
hilt  of  his  knife  with  an  iron  grasp  

— That  moment  was  soon  gone,  but  while  it  passed,  our  friend  Jacopo, 
with  the  round  face  and  enormous  mouth,  stole  quietly  behind  the  hunter, 
poured  some  white  powder  in  a  goblet  filled  with  water,  and  applied 
it  to  the  lips  of  the  fainting  girl,  as  he  raised  her  from  the  floor.  The 
action  passed  unobserved ;  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  hunter  and  his 
antagonist.  

A  scene  occurred  which  baffles  description.  Suddenly  the  dead  si- 
lence was  broken  by  the  screams  of  women,  the  voices  of  men  mingled  in 
confused  cries. 

The  young  stranger  was  on  the  floor,  the  knee  of  Gilbert  on  his  breast, 
the  knife  flashing  above  his  face. 

"  Do  not  strike  him,"  cried  Peter  Dorfner, — "  Take  care,  Gilbert,  it 
will  be  a  Murder  " 

"Stand  back  !  Woe  to  the  man  who  meddles  in  this  quarrel  !" — the 
hunter  was  hoarse  with  rage ;  his  voice,  yelling  through  the  farm-house, 
sounded  more  like  the  howl  of  a  hunted  buffalo,  than  the  voice  of  a 
human  being.  "  I  tell  you,  he  belongs  to  me  !  He  has  stepped  between 
me  and  Mad'lin'  !  Stand  back — Now,  Mister,  will  you  tell  your  name, 
who  you  are,  and  whar'  you  b'long  ?  Quick  !" 

John's  face  was  very  pale.  Stretched  on  the  floor,  his  back  against  the 
hard  boards,  the  knee  of  the  hunter  pressing  the  life  out  of  his  chest,  he 
made  a  desperate  effort  to  free  himself,  gathering  all  his  strength  in  the 
attempt.  It  was  in  vain.  The  knee  pressed  heavier  and  firmer  upon  his 
heart ;  a  convulsive  movement  agitated  the  muscles  of  his  throat.  As  his 
face  grew  paler,  his  eyes  began  to  protrude  from  their  sockets. 

44  Quick !  Your  name,  I  say !" — and  the  uplifted  knife  flashed  into 
the  very  eyes  of  the  helpless  man. 


Ml. 

the  monk  of  the  wissahikon.  47 

His  lips  moved  ;  he  uttered  a  word.    Gilbert  bent  down  to  hear  it — 

"Coward J"  he  exclaimed,  and  a  scornful  smile  crossed  his  pale 
features.  There  was  something  so  resolute,  in  this  solitary  word  of  the 
helpless  man,  that  a  murmur  of  admiration  escaped  from  the  spectators, 
who  were  held  terrified  and  motionless  by  the  interest  of  the  scene. 

"  Then,  take  this  !"  The  knife  descended,  urged  by  the  impulse  of  a 
madman's  fury,  and  the  prostrate  man  closed  his  eyes,  as  he  saw  the  steel 
flash  over  him,  ere  it  fell. 

A  sharp,  piercing  cry  was  heard  ;  it  came  from  Jacopo's  lips,  as,  with 
the  fainting  maiden  in  his  arms,' he  beheld  the  danger  of  his  Master. 

"  Strike  him  at  your  peril !"  he  screamed — "  it  is  the  Lord  " 

But  his  voice  was  drowned  in  the  shout  of  wonder  which  echoed  from 
every  lip,  and  filled  the  wide  hall  with  a  sound  like  thunder. 

The  knife  had  been  dashed  aside.  Turned  from  its  aim  by  a  fragile 
stick,  which  lay,  severed  in  twain,  on  one  side  of  the  prostrate  man, 
while  the  knife  glittered  on  the  other,  from  the  sand  which  covered 
the  floor. 

One  cry  murmured  from  every  lip,  a  sound  which  mingled  wonder 
with  fear,  and  was  remarkable  not  so  much  for  loudness,  as  for  depth 
of  tone  : 

"  The  Monk  of  Wissahikon  !"  These  words  were  distinguishable 
amid  its  clamor. 

Even  the  bluff  host  started  back,  as  though  seized  with  sudden  fright ; 
the  guests,  the  doctor,  lawyer,  parson,  the  buxom  damsels,  and  the  hearty 
farmers,  all  moved  backward,  with  the  same  impulse. 

At  the  sound,  Gilbert  the  Hunter  rose,  and  stood  with  his  head  bowed 
and  his  arms  motionless  by  his  side.  He,  the  strong  man,  who,  only  a 
moment  ago,  had  stricken  his  knife  at  the  heart  of  a  helpless  man,  now 
trembled  in  every  iron  nerve. 

Jacopo  alone,  gazing  around  upon  the  circle  of  affrighted  faces,  could 
not  comprehend  the  cause  of  this  sudden  change,  this  universal  terror. 

The  young  man,  relieved  from  the  pressure  of  the  giant's  knee,  and 
with  the  knife  no  longer  flashing  death  into  his  face,  rose  into  a  sitting 
posture,  and  looked  around  with  a  blank  stare,  his  eyes  dilating  in  his 
ashen  visage. 

Before  him  stood  the  cause  of  this  strange  terror  ;  a  voice  marked  by 
its  musical  emphasis,  melted  gently  on  his  ears  : 

"  It  was  wrong,  Gilbert,  and  the  good  God  will  not  love  you  for  the 
guilty  thought !  To  raise  your  hand  against  your  brother's  life — a 
murderer's  deed  !" 

Not  an  eye  but  was  riveted  to  the  face  of  the  speaker  ;  and  again  the 
whisper  was  heard — 

"The  Monk  of  Wissahikon  !" 

In  the  centre  of  the  circle  described  by  the  spectators,  stood  a  young 


48  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

man,  not  more  than  nineteen  years  old  ;  his  form  at  once  graceful  and 
athletic,  clad  in  a  coat  or  tunic  of  black  velvet,  which,  leaving  his  throat 
bare,  fell  in  easy  folds  from  his  broad  shoulders  to  his  knees. 

His  hair,  long  and  flowing,  in  hue  as  black  as  the  robe  which  he  wore, 
was  crowned  by  a  circular  cap,  also  made  of  velvet ;  and,  framed  by  the 
cap  and  the  dark  hair,  a  face  appeared  which  at  once  enchained  the  gaze 
of  every  eye. 

It  was  a  young  face,  the  forehead  broad  and  high,  the  eyebrows  arched 
like  a  crescent,  the  nose  straight  and  regular,  the  lips  warm  and  full,  the 
chin  round  and  beardless. 

Such  was  the  general  description  of  the  face  ;  but  there  was  a  look 
upon  its  brown  skin,  an  expression  woven  with  its  firm  features,  a  light 
shining  from  its  eyes,  so  piercing  and  impetuous,  so  much  like  magic  or 
magnetism,  that  no  words  can  depict  the  Power  which  it  held,  at  once 
and  for  ever,  upon  the  souls  of  those  who  looked  upon  it. 

That  face,  in  a  word,  linked  with  a  form  whose  boyish  outlines  were 
just  ripening  into  young  manhood,  seemed  like  the  face  of  one  set  apart 
from  the  herd  of  mankind  by  some  supernatural  power.  It  bore  the 
stamp  of  Destiny. 

In  the  eastern  lands  it  would  have  been  said,  at  once,  that  the  brown 
face  was  gifted  with  the  terrible  fatality  of  the  Evil  Eye. 

Few  could  gaze  steadily  into  that  eye,  and  mark  its  colour  ;  it  was 
either  dead,  with  a  vacant,  glassy  stare,  or  lighted  up  with  a  flame,  that 
shot  its  power  to  the  gazer's  heart,  and  held  him  dumb  and  motionless. 

Most  strange  it  was  to  see  the  terror  which  that  face  excited  in  the 
farm-house  of  Wissahikon. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken,  as  those  large  eyes  roved  from  side  to  side,  nor 
did  a  solitary  voice  bid  the  young  man  welcome  to  the  New  Year's  festival. 

He  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  scene,  his  right  hand  looking  like  marble, 
contrasted  with  his  dress,  resting  absently  upon  the  silver  cross,  which, 
suspended  from  his  neck,  rose  and  fell  with  every  pulsation  of  his  chest. 

"  Your  name  ?"  cried  John,  as  he  slowly  rose  to  his  feet,  and  took 
the  stranger  by  the  hand.  "  You  have  done  me  a  service  which  I  shall 
never  forget.    I  owe  my  life  to  you — " 

He  spoke  hurriedly,  but  his  face  was  flushed,  his  voice  broken  by  sin- 
cere feeling. 

"  They  call  me  Paul  Ardenheim." 

He  uttered  these  words  in  a  voice  whose  deep  melody  charmed  every 
ear  ;  and  then  turning,  sought  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered.  As 
he  walked  away  with  an  even  stride,  his  back  toward  the  gazers,  it 
might  be  seen  that  his  velvet  garb  concealed  a  form  of  manly  vigor,  and 
almost  womanly  beauty. 

On  the  threshold  he  paused  ;  once  more  they  beheld  that  bronzed  face 
with  the  large  eyes,  shining  with  that  intense  light — 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  49 

"  Do  not  war  upon  each  other,  mf  friends.  The  cloud  of  war  is 
darkening  over  our  land.  It  will  be  a  long  and  bloody  contest.  If  war 
you  must,  if  you  cannot  live  without  the  sword,  let  your  war  be  waged 
against  the  invaders  of  our  soil ;  let  your  swords  be  sharpened  for  their 
throats." 

The  door  closed ;  he  was  gone  ;  his  place  was  vacant,  yet  still  they 
seemed  to  behold  him  in  his  dark  garb,  standing  in  their  midst,  the  sad 
look  upon  his  face,  the  vivid  light  in  his  large  eyes. 

"  Remain  here,  Jacob,"  cried  John,  as,  with  his  face  moved  by  strong 
emotion,  he  rushed  to  the  door.    "  I  will  return  in  a  moment  1" 

The  door  had  not  closed  after  him,  when  Gilbert  took  his  knife  from 
the  floor. 

He  was  moving  to  the  door,  when  Uncle  Peter  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm  : 

"  Which  way,  Gilbert  ?" 

"  What's  that  to  you  V9  was  the  hurried  reply. 

"A  great  deal,  my  good  friend  :"  the  host  whispered  a  word  in  his  ear, 
and  with  a  rapid  motion  described  a  sign  on  his  forehead.  "  Now  go  ! 
Harm  the  stranger  at  your  peril !   You  know  your  duty  !     Go  !" 

The  countenance  of  the  hunter  fell. 

"You,  too,  Uncle  Peter?  You  among  us  ?  Then  these  stories  are 
true—" 

"  Sirrah  !  Don't  you  see  these  people  are  listening  with  open  eyes  and 
ears  ?    Go  !    You  remember — "  % 
The  other  answered  in  a  whisper — 

"  The  house  of  old  Isaac,  on  the  hill  near  the  Schuylkill !  But 
Mad'lin'  ?" 

He  cast  his  glance  toward  the  unconscious  maiden,  who  still  reposed 
in  Jacob's  arms,  her  brown  hair  falling  neglected  over  her  pale  cheeks, 
while  her  arms  hung  by  her  side. 

"Girls,  you  will  carry  Madeline  to  her  room,"  said  Peter,  in  a  loud 
voice — "  This  marriage  cannot  take  place  to-night !  Go  !  Your  duty 
is  before  you — /  command  you  /" 

The  girl  started  from  her  swoon,  even  as  her  hunter  lover  stoo^  with 
his  face  turned  toward  the  door.  She  dashed  the  flowing  hair  from  her 
face  as  she  sprang  from  Jacopo's  arms,  and  looked  around  with  a  fright- 
ened glance. 

"  I  saw  it  all  !"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  that  went  to  every  heart — "  I 
saw  her  led,  pale  and  beautiful,  in  her  white  dress,  which  was  also  her 
shroud,  into  the  half-lighted  room,  with  rude  wainscot  on  its  narrow  walls, 
and  a  couch  in  one  corner. — " 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  Take  her  to  her  room — she  is  out  of  her  head" — the 
face  of  Uncle  Peter  grew  crimson,  as  he  waved  his  hand,  and  with  that 
emphatic  gesture,  and  angry  voice,  bade  the  country  damsels  remove  the 
bewildered  girl. 

4 


50  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  0,  the  scene  was  very  sad,  and  it  seemed  to  me,  as  I  looked  on,  my 
eyes  were  filled  with  bitter  tears.  For  she  was  a  Mother,  and  no  friend 
was  near  to  watch  over  her  agony  ;  afar  from  her  country  and  her  home, 
and  not  one  kind  hand  to  wipe  away  a  tear  !  Yes,  there  was  one  friend — 
a  faithful  negro,  who  fought  for  his  mistress.  But  I  see  it  yet — ah  God  ! 
They  blind  him  with  their  knives — his  eyes  are  dark — dark  forever  !  He 
cannot  see  the  Babe,  which  is  torn  from  the  Mother's  arms,  ere  it  has 
blessed  her  with  a  smile  ah  !  Spare  her,  pity  her,  for  she  is  a  mo- 
ther, and  no  friend  is  near  !" 

"Must  we  hear  these  ravings  all  night?"  Peter  Dorfner  forced  the 
bewildered  girl  into  the  arms  of  two  red-cheeked  damsels,  and  pointed  to 
the  door.    "  To  her  chamber,  and  let  her  sleep  away  this  crazy  dream  !" 

As  she  was  borne  through  the  door,  which  opened  upon  the  stairway, 
Gilbert,  with  his  head  bowed  down,  and  his  right  hand  clasped  upon  his 
knife,  while  the  other  grasped  the  rifle,  left  the  farm-house  without  a  word. 

The  bluff  Peter,  with  his  red  face  and  white  beard,  found  himself  stand- 
ing alone  among  his  wondering  guests. 

"  Hey,  folks  ?  Why  do  you  stare  so  ?  Is  it  such  a  wonder  to  see  two 
boys  pick  a  quarrel  with  each  other,  or  do  you  get  frightened  at  a  love- 
sick girl's  faintin'  fit  ?  Come — draw  your  cheers  around  the  fire ;  and  let 
the  women  make  mischief,  while  the  men  smoke.  A  pipe,  doctor  ?  Come, 
don't  be  snappish — parson,  forgive  that  little  joke  about  the  rabbits — here, 
lawyer  Simmons,  let's  have  a  social  ^iat,  I  say  !" 

In  a  moment,  a  circle  was  formed  around  the  fire.  The  centre  of  the 
picture,  sat  the  jovial  Peter,  his  red  face  and  round  form  glowing  in  the 
light.  On  one  side  the  Lawyer,  with  a  most  lugubrious  face  ;  on  the 
other  the  Doctor,  who  arranged  his  wig,  and  looked  steadily  into  the  fire. 
Next  to  the  Doctor,  the  Parson  was  seen,  his  limbs  crossed,  and  his  hands 
folded  pleasantly  upon  his  stomach. 

The  four,  every  one  with  his  pipe  and  his  bowl  of  cider,  smoked  and 
drank  as  if  for  their  lives.  A  constantly  accumulating  cloud  hung  over 
their  heads. 

Around  these  figures,  to  the  right  and  left  were  displayed  the  three  aged 
dames,  the  young  girls,  the  stripling  farmers,  and  the  good  neighbors 
Wampole  and  Spurtzelditscher.  Far  in  the  chimney,  Phillisey  was 
sleeping,  nodding  portentously,  and  every  moment  making  a  strong  de- 
monstration of  throwing  herself  into  the  fire.  The  blind  fiddler,  Black 
Sam,  also  seemed  drowsy  ;  his  sightless  eyeballs  glared  in  the  light,  and 
his  fiddle  lay  neglected  upon  his  knees. 

But  Jacopo — where  is  Jacopo,  with  that  face  shining  like  a  beacon,  that 
form  resembling  a  barrel,  mounted  on  bean-poles  ?  Behold  him  yonder. 
Bending  over  the  table,  cramming  himself  with  the  wreck  of  the  supper 
dainties,  now  paying  his  respects  to  the  fragments  of  a  sausage,  now 
drowning  his  sorrows  in  a  brimming  bowl  of  rare  October,     All  the 


1 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


51 


while,  a  fit  of  laughter  seems  struggling  into  birth,  through  every  fibr ; 
of  his  grotesque  face.  You  see  it  in  the  distortions  of  his  enormous 
mouth,  in  the  twinkling  of  his  small  black  eyes. 

"  Poor  girl  !  Such  a  vivifying  powder — good  for  fainting  spells  !  Bet- 
ter for  unknown  lovers  !" 

Broader  and  brighter  grew  the  great  fire  on  the  hearth,  and  thicker  and 
darker  rolled  the  tobacco  cloud  over  the  room. 

••Why  d'ye  all  sit  here,  like  leaden  images  in  a  Dutch  church  ?  Not  a 
word  has  been  spoken  for  this  five  minutes.  Where's  all  your  fun,  Doc- 
tor ?  Parson,  you  sit  moping  like  an  owl  ;  and  as  for  you,  Lawyer, 
one  'ud  think  that  your  rich  gran'mother  had  just  died,  and  cut  you  off 
without  a  shillin' !  Here,  Phillisey ;  go  up  into  the  garret;  under  the 
eaves  of  the  roof,  you  will  find  certain  bottles  of  rare  old  wine,  which  a 
Philadelphy  marchant  gave  me  some  years  ago.  Sam,  I  say,  S-a-m  ! 
Wake  up  and  giv's  a  tune  !" 

Did  the  blind  negro  hear  the  jovial  Peter  ?  Certainly  he  did  not  raise 
his  head,  but,  with  his  sightless  eyeballs  turned  to  the  fire,  remained  as 
motionless  as  a  rock  of  anthracite  coal. 

"Are  you  "sleep,  nigger  ? — come,  I  say !    Giv's  a  tune  !" 

Was  it  a  shudder  that  agitated  the  withered  form  of  the  black  man  ? 
His  face,  marked  by  the  characteristic  features  of  his  race,  the  flat  nose, 
thick  lips,  and  receding  chin,  quivered  in  every  nerve,  and  the  wrinkles 
on  his  low  forehead  were  woven  together,  as  though  by  a  sudden  and 
intense  pain. 

"  Sam,  I  say  ;  stir  up,  and  play's  a  tune" — the  cheerful  Peter  shook 
him  roughly  by  the  shoulder — "  You  ha'nt  forgot  all  your  music,  man  ?" 

The  negro's  fingers,  cramped  and  bent  by  severe  labor,  moved  with  the 
same  convulsive  tremor  which  agitated  his  entire  frame.— 

"  Dis  nigga  am  sick,  Massa.  He  am  gettin  berry  old.  Dese  cold  nights 
driv'  allude  tune  out  of  ura  head." 

A  cloud  was  visible  on  Peter's  rotund  visage,  and  something  very  much 
like  an  oath  came  through  his  fat  lips. 

But  at  this  moment,  every  ear  was  attracted  by  the  sound  of  an  opening 
door,  and  with  heads  turned  from  the  fire,  the  New  Year's  guests  gazed 
upon  the  new-comer. 

"  Hah  !  It's  John,"  said  Peter,  with  one  of  his  deep  chuckles — "Why 
so  changed,  man?  Your  step  is  heavy — bless  my  heart!  You're  pale 
as  a  corpse.    Hey  ?  John — don't  you  know  me  ?" 

"  Who"— whispered  the  young  man,  as  he  leaned  for  support  upon 
Peter's  arm-chair — "  Who  is  he?" 

He  wiped  the  cold  perspiration  from  his  forehead  :  the  light,  shooting 
up  in  a  hearty  glow,  showed  the  death-like  pallor  of  his  handsome 
features. 

"  He  ?  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ?" 


52  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

"  This  Paul  how  do  you  name  him  ?  This  Monk  of  Wissahikon  ?" 

At  the  word,  a  strange  gloom  fell  upon  the  faces  near  the  tire-side. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken  in  answer  to  the  question 

Peter,  with  his  habitual  gesture,  smoothed  his  beard,  and  inhaled  a 
hearty  draught  from  the  tube  of  his  pipe,  glancing  sidelong,  from  his 
half-closed  eyes,  toward  the  faces  around  him. 

"Can  none,  of  you  answer  ?  You  surely  know  him — certainly  can  give 
a  reason  for  the  terror  which  overspreads  your  faces,  when  you  hear  his 
voice,  and  feel  his  eye  upon  you  !  A  knife  is  at  my  throat,  and  with  the 
knee  of  my  enemy  pressing  upon  my  chest,  I  feel  that  the  hour  of  my 
death  is  come.  When  lo  !  a  mere  boy  clad  in  black  appears,  dashes  the 
knife  aside,  his  only  weapon  a  withered  stick — and  you  all  start  with 
fear.  Even  my  antagonist  seems  stricken  with  palsy.  Have  you  no  an- 
swer?   Who  is  the  Monk  of  Wissahikon  ?" 

The  Doctor  looked  cautiously  toward  the  door,  and  took  his  pipe  from 
his  lips — 

"  He — that  is — you  ask — why,  indeed — he  is — the  Monk  of  Wis- 
sahikon." 

"  The  explanation  is  lucid,"  and  a  sneer  quivered  on  the  young  man's 
lips — "  I  almost  know  as  much  as  when  I  first  asked  the  question." 

"Sit  down,  John.  Take  a  pipe,  and  draw  a  cheer.  You  shall  watch 
with  us  the  comin'  of  the  New  Year,  while  the  girls  wait  upon  poor 
Madeline  in  her  chamber  above  us.  There  now,  that's  a  hearty  boy- 
smoke  away,  and  let  your  cares  fly  with  every  puff!  The  Monk  of — 
you  want  to  know  who  he  is  ?    P'r'aps  these  good  folks  can  tell  us." 

John  slid  into  a  chair,  took  the  proffered  bowl  and  pipe,  while  Jacopo 
crept  to  his  side,  his  diminutive  black  eyes  peering,  with  nervous  inten- 
sity, into  every  face. 

"  Young  man,  there  are  some  questions,  which  it  is  not  profitable  to 
ask  on  a  New  Year's  Eve." — The  Doctor's  visage  was  elongated  beneath 
his  wig,  into  a  most  refreshing  solemnity,  reminding  you  of  some  strange 
creation  of  fabulous  history,  linking  the  prominent  characteristics  of  the 
donkey  and  the  owl.  "About  one-fourth  of  a  mile  from  this  place,  on 
the  other  side  of  Wissahikon,  stands  an  old  house.  In  that  house  lives 
the  Monk.    His  father  lives  there,  too." 

"  Per-fectly  satisfactory  !"  whispered  Jacopo. 

"Dish  house — Gott  forgives  me!  I  never  likes  to  pass  him  late  at 
night!"  was  the  profound  remark  of  Neighbor  Spurtzelditscher. 

"  Been  by  there  often" — chorused  Neighbor  Wampole,  starting  a  sly 
glance  toward  the  door.  "  Often.  Late  at  night  and  airly  in  the  morniu'. 
Reerd  strange  sounds  within  that  house.    They  say  its  ha-a-nted." 

It  was  now  the  Parson's  turn.  Touching  the  young  man  on  the  arm. 
he  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and  gave  utterance  to  a  profound 
ejaculation — 

•     I  %^ 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


53 


"  Let  us  pray  that  we  may  be  saved  from  selling  our  souls  to  the  Ene- 
my of  Mankind !" 

By  way  of  enforcing  this  excellent  idea,  he  placed  the  bowl  to  his  lips, 
and  drank  in  solemn  silence. 

"  Per-fectly  satisfactory  !"  again  whispered  Jacopo. 

"  The  old  man,  the  father  of  the — Monk — has  a  daughter  ?"  asked  Law- 
yer Simmons,  whose  features  manifested  die  sleepy  period  of  drunken- 
ness. "  By-the-bye,  Dorfner" — he  whispered  these  words  in  the  ear  of 
his  corpulent  friend — "Certain  they  were  n't  cats?'" 

John  sat  moodily  in  front  of  the  fire,  his  face  shaded  by  his  uplifted 
hand,  while  his  form  was  enveloped  to  the  throat,  in  his  grey  coat.  Yet 
beneath  that  shadowing  hand,  his  pale  features  were  wet  with  cold  mois- 
ture, and  the  trembling  of  the  nether  lip,  the  wavering  light  of  the  full 
eye,  indicated  some  powerful  emotion.  Jacopo,  as  he  stood  at  the  back 
of  his  chair,  bent  over  him,  and  placed  his  lips  to  the  ear  of  his  master— 

"The  Potion!"  he  whispered.  "Jill  is  right.  While  I  play  the  fid- 
dle, do  you  plead  weariness,  and  retire  to  your  room.  The  sound  will 
attract  the  attention  of  the  girls  up  stairs  ;  they  will  flock  to  the  dance. 
Your  room  is  next  to  the  chamber  of  Madeline 

All  at  once,  a  warm  flush  chased  the  pallor  from  the  young  man's 
face  :  his  eye  grew  steady,  intense  in  its  glance  ;  his  full  lips  wreathed  in 
a  smile. 

«Ah — Jacopo  !  What  would  the  Devil  do,  were  there  no  such  imps 
as  you,  in  this  beautiful  world?" 

The  minute  hand  of  the  Old  Clock  in  the  corner,  pointed  to  the  hour 
of  Twelve.  In  a  moment,  1774  would  be  buried  with  the  dead  years, 
and  1775,  a  newly  born  baby  of  a  year,  come  chirping  into  light. 

This  was  the  scene  which  the  Old  Clock  saw,  in  the  last  moment  of 
the  dying  year. 

Beside  the  table,  huge  and  portly,  his  coat  thrown  aside,  and  his  shirt 
sleeves  rolled  up,  stood  the  jocund  Peter  Dorfner,  his  face  like  the  full 
moon  on  the  clock,  as,  with  extended  hands,  he  poured  bottle  after  bottle 
into  the  colossal  punch-bowl,  made  of  some  unknown  wood,  rimmed  with 
silver,  and  carved  all  over  with  drunken  satyrs  and  reeling  fauns. 

Madeira  and  Sherry,  Brandy  and  Hock,  he  poured  them  all  into  the 
great  bowl,  and  added  spices  without  number,  until  the  steam  of  the  hot 
liquors  filled  the  very  air  with  a  drunken  flavor. 

—  Well  is  it  for  the  topers  of  1848,  that  the  great  Secret  of  the  Peter 
Dorfner  Punch  is  lost  forever,  in  the  abyss  of  Time  !  Oh,  my  amiable 
friends,  whose  noses  bloom  with  carbuncles,  whose  very  cheeks  bear  the 
red  blossoms  of  Brandy,  had  you  seen  old  Peter  mix  his  Punch,  com- 
posed of  all  the  liquors  in  the  world,  and  fragrant  with  the  spices  of 
every  clime,  you  would  have  grown  merrily  drunk  with  the  very  flavor, 


54 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM ;  OR, 


nay,  went  reeling  to  your  beds,  with  a  single  whiff  from  that  steaming 
bowl !  But  the  secret  is  lost,  and  the  topers  of  1848  must  be  content  to 
drink  Pure  Poison,  such  delectable  liquids  as  vitriol,  creosote,  spiced  with 
cocculus  indicus  and  freshened  with  putrid  water,  and  go  reeling  to  their 
graves,  without  the  knowledge  of  the  great  Dorfner  Punch. — 

And  while  Peter  mixes  his  great  Punch,  yonder,  in  the  arm-chair, 
crouches  Jacopo,  writhing  in  the -agonies  of  the  fiddle,  which  he  clasps 
with  one  hand,  while  the  other  plies  the  bow,  and  sends  the  dancers 
whirling  over  the  sanded  floor. 

Only  steal  one  look  at  his  face,  the  mouth  distorted  by  a  thousand 
changing  grimaces,  the  sharp  black  eyes,  leering  from  the  wrinkled  lids, 
the  round  cheek  resting  lovingly  against  the  fiddle  ! 

Then  his  spider  legs  are  crossed,  while  the  round  paunch  undulates 
with  laughter,  and  the  long  right  arm  seems  impelled  into  activity  by 
some  galvanic  battery. 

The  dancers — it  were  worth  your  while  to  look  at  them.  Now  hud- 
dled in  a  crowd,  now  scattered  over  the  floor,  heels  and  heads  and 
arms,  moving  like  clock-work  run  mad — saw  you  ever  such  dancing  ? 

Here  the  Doctor  without  a  wig,  there  the  Parson  holding  up  his  gown, 
yonder  Spurtzelditscher  without  his  coat,  and  Perkenpine,  his  sallow 
face  burning  with  an  incipient  apoplexy,  round  and  round  they  whirled, 
entangled  in  a  maze  of  young  damsels,  with  the  three  old  ladies  skir- 
mishing on  the  frontiers  of  that  drunken  circle  ! 

Jacopo's  fiddle  did  it  all. 

How  it  screamed,  and  roared,  and  yelled  and  laughed,  putting  gunpow- 
der in  every  heel,  and  firing  it  off  in  every  vein.  It  was  a  wicked 
fiddle,  and  Jacopo  cheered  it  on,  with  curses  and  shouts,  until  the  whole 
mansion  shook,  the  very  windows  rattling  like  a  thunder-storm  of  broken 
glass. 

And  round  and  round,  and  up  the  sanded  floor,  and  down  again,  and 
over  against  the  clock  and  across  upon  the  table,  caps  flying,  skirts  toss- 
ing, and  faces  steaming  with  damp  crimson,  they  kept  it  up,  while  jocund 
Peter  mixed  the  punch,  and  Jacopo  lashed  the  fiddle.  Lashed  it  with 
the  bow,  as  with  a  whip,  until  it  seemed  to  beg  for  mercy,  and  roar  with 
agony  ! 

And  as  the  dance  went  on,  in  drunken  frenzy,  the  clock  struck 
Twelve. 

"  Come,  boys  and  gals,"  shouted  the  jovial  Peter,  smoothing  his  white 
beard,  and  looking  like  a  wood-cut  of  Christmas  in  some  old  Dutch 
Almanac — "  We  danced  the  Old  Year  out— let's  drink  the  New  Year  in  !'' 

The  clock  struck  Twelve,  and  in  the  room  above — only  separated 
from  the  scene  of  drunken  mirth,  by  a  layer  of  planks,  and  a  few  stout 
rafters — a  Maiden  was  extended  on  her  virgin  bed,  the  light  held  in  the 


/ 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  55 

hand  of  the  Libertine  playing  softly  over  that  cheek,  so  brown  and  yet 
so  warm,  along  the  bosom,  stealing  in  glimpses  from  the  robe,  that 
trembled  with  the  life  throbbing  beneath  its  folds. 

Poor  Madeline  ! 

Of  all  the  hours  in  her  young  life,  the  hour  of  Twelve,  when  the  bell 
struck  1775  into  being,  was  most  dangerous  to  her  soul. 


CHAPTER  FOURTH. 

PAUL  THE  DREAMER. 

There  is  a  grey  old  rock,  rising  above  the  brown  dust  of  the  road,  its 
granite  breast  turned  to  the  west,  while  all  around  it  bloom  the  summer 
leaves,  and  above  it,  the  slanted  pine  flings  its  thick  shadows. 

It  stands  alone,  huge,  massive  and  colossal,  like  the  altar  of  some  for- 
gotten religion,  rising  in  sullen  grandeur  from  the  roadside  earth,  with 
many  a  tender  flower  peeping  from  its  crevices,  while  its  summit 
spreads  beneath  the  sky,  level  as  a  floor. 

You  may  stand  upon  this  rock  in  the  summer  morning,  and  feel  your 
heart  praise  God,  as,  encircled  by  the  freshness  of  the  woods,  lulled  by 
the  music  of  the  waters,  you  turn  your  gaze  to  the  sky,  whose  tranquil 
azure — just  touched  by  the  rising  sun — contrasts  so  beautifully  with  the 
bright  green  of  the  leaves,  the  soft  darkness  of  the  waves. 

To  the  west — suddenly  turning  from  its  northern  course — the  Wissa- 
hikon  flashes  on,  shadowed  by  broken  rocks,  with  great  walls  of  verdure 
towering  on  either  side,  into  the  clear  morning  sky. 

On  the  south,  at  the  distance  of  but  one  hundred  yards,  an  ancient  mill 
looks  forth  with  its  black  walls,  from  the  leaves  that  hang  around  its  roof, 
and  near  the  mill,  a  waterfall  glimpses  into  light,  for  an  instant,  ere  it 
plunges  into  the  shadows.  Beside  this  mill  three  roads  meet ;  one 
comes  from  the  south,  peeping  abruptly  from  the  world  of  foliage  ;  orfe 
leads  to  the  north,  along  the  base  of  the  great  rock ;  the  other  to  the 
west,  skirting  the  Wissahikon,  on  her  way  to  the  Schuylkill. 

But  at  the  spot  where  the  roads  meet,  a  sight  of  fresh  rustic  beauty 
meets  your  eye.  It  is  an  oaken  trough,  filled  with  clear  cold  water, 
fresh  from  the  caverns  of  Wissahikon,  with  the  shadow  of  overhanging 
branches  between  it  and  the  light  of  day. 

The  mill-stream,  which  dashes  into  the  shadows,  to  the  south  of  the 


56 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM ;  OR, 


great  rock,  passes  underneath  the  bridge,  erected  between  the  rock  and 
tite  oaken  trough,  sparkling  with  clear  cold  water. 

Such  are  the  general  features  of  the  scene.  Yet  there  are  no  words 
m  language  to  paint  its  full  beauty.  Who  shall  tell  how  the  leaves,  rising 
in  trembling  pyramids  of  foliage,  almost  shut  out  the  sky  above  us  ? 
How  the  stream,  now  spreading  in  a  pool  as  clear  a  mirror,  set  in  a 
frame  of  granite,  now  breaking  in  foaming  waves  against  the  rugged 
rocks,  passes  into  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  and  is  seen,  far  beyond, 
flashing  into  light  again,  like  a  soA  risen  again  from  the  shadows  of  the 
grave  / 

Or,  what  pencil  shall  paint  the  slow-moving  clouds  that  sail  over  the 
deep  blue,  and  hover  above  the  Wissahikon,  as  if  gazing  upon  their  white 
bosom,  reflected  in  the  clear  waters,  far  below  ? 

it  is  beautiful  to  stand  upon  the  .rock,  in  the  summer-time,  and  feel 
that  God  is  there,  in  the  white  blossoms  that  float  along  in  the  air,  as 
well  as  in  the  glimpse  of  blue  sky,  seen  from  overhead,  but  there  was  a 
Night,  when  the  place  seemed  tenanted  by  the  Good  and  the  Evil  An- 
gels of  the  shadowy  world. 

The  moon  rose  over  the  eastern  woods.  A  globe  of  pale  golden  light, 
she  hovered  on  the  tops  of  the  leafless  trees,  and  shot  her  sad  beams 
along  the  summit  of  the  giant  rock,  and  far  down  the  glen  of  Wissa- 
hikon. That  sad  light  shone  upon  the  stream,  as  it  chafed  onward, 
among  rocks  of  ice,  and  rocks  of  stone  ;  it  gave  a  spectral  glare  to  the 
leafless  woods,  and  revealed  a  sky,  which,  deepening  into  an  intense 
blue,  and  strown  with  points  of  light,  looked  like  a  tremulous  curtain, 
hung  between  man  and  Eternity.  A  tremulous  curtain,  veiling  the  awful 
secrets  of  the  World  Beyond,  and  quivering  in  soft  light,  ere  it  was  rolled 
aside. 

On  the  last  night  of  1774,  as  the  moon  rose  in  the  east,  you  might 
have  seen  two  figures  crouching  under  the  giant  rock,  and  have  heard 
their  subdued  whispers,  breaking  the  Sabbath  stillness  of  the  air. 

At  their  feet  dashed  the  mill-stream,  plunging  into  the  Wissahikon, 
with  no  bridge  shadowing  its  tumultuous  foam.  The  mill  rose  in  the 
south,  its  dark  walls  encircled  by  leafless  branches.  Above  them,  pro- 
jecting as  it  rose,  the  giant  rock  flung  a  deep  shadow  over  the  wide  forest 
path. 

Seated  on  a  log,  beneath  that  rock,  they  conversed  in  whispers.  One, 
a  stunted  and  withered  form — like  a  strong  oak,  blasted  by  lightning — 
brushed  the  long  hair  from  his  face,  as  he  gathered  the  coarse  mantle 
around  his  distorted  figure.  The  other,  a  tall  and  robust  man,  in  the 
prime  of  his  manhood,  grasped  his  rifle  with  a  firm  hand,  and  turned 
his  frank,  earnest  face,  toward  the  horse-like  visage  of  his  companion. 

"  At  what  hour  ?" — said  a  bold  voice — it  was  the  voice  of  the  Hunter, 
Gilbert  Morgan. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  57 

He  gazed  into  the  face  of  the  hunchback,  with  a  sensation  of  involun- 
tary awe.  That  long  visage,  shadowed  by  the  matted  hair,  and  resting  on 
the  muscular  breast,  with  the  shoulders  rising  on  either  side,  had  a  wild, 
unearthly  look.  The  small  white  hands  were  pressed  against  the  hollow 
cheeks,  and  a  lurid  light  played  around  the  eyes.  It  was  more  like  the 
face  of  a  demon,  than  the  visage  of  a  man. 

Stout  Gilbert,  whose  tall  form  combined,  in  every  outline,  a  rude  beauty 
with  an  iron  vigor,  was  awed,  not  only  by  the  vision  of  this  deformed 
figure  and  unnatural  face,  but  by  the  awful  night  which  encircled  him, 
the  deep  blue  sky,  made  spectral  by  the  light  of  the  rising  moon,  the 
Wissahikon,  filling  the  dell  with  a  never-ceasing  ecl^o,  the  trees,  with 
leafless  branches,  standing  like  wierd  sentinels  by  its  waters. 

"  At  what  hour  ?"  he  whispered. 

"At  the  hour  of  twelve — "  said  Black  David  ;  his  voice  was  soft  and 
musical.  "  Through  the  grove  of  pines,  in  front  of  the  mansion,  into  the 
front  door — by  this  key— and  up  the  stairs.  Then,  you  will  turn  to#the 
right,  traverse  a  corridor,  and  discover  the  small  door  leading  to  the 
tower.    The  old  man — "  " 

"Isaac  the  Wizard  ?"  asked  Gilbert,  his  voice  broken  by  a  tremor. 

"  Isaac  the  Wizard  !"  a  smile  displayed  the  white  teeth  .of  the  De- 
formed— "Yes,  Isaac  the  Wizard.  You  will  find  him  in  the  tower. 
Secure  his  gold.  And  at  the  hour  of  one,  present  yourself  at  the  House 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Wissahikon — you- remember  it?" 

Gilbert  shuddered.  Was  it  from  fear,  as  a  dark  Memory  rushed  upon 
his  soul,  or  did  the  accent  with  which  Black  David  pronounced  the  itali- 
cized words,  strike  him  with  involuntary  awe  ? 

"  You  are — you — "  he  began,  but  the  words  died  on  his  lips. 

"  What  am  I  ?  Tell  me.  I  have  a  vast  curiosity  to  know  what  the 
good  people  of  the  valley  and  the  dell  say  of  me.  A  poor,  deformed 
wretch — eh  ?" 

He  pronounced  these  words  with  an  inexpressible  bitterness. 

"  Now  look  you,  my  friend — "  Gilbert  spoke  in  rough  yet  manly  tones 
— "  No  one  ever  yit  caught  me  a-makin'  fun  of  any  man's  personal  ap- 
pearance. Don't  keer  how  sticky  the  burr  is,  only  so  there's  a  good 
mesnut  inside.    But  I  was  goin'  to  say  " 

"Well?"  Black  David  drew  nearer  to  him.  The  hunter  imagined 
that  he  felt  the  intense  light  of  his  eyes,  shining  into  his  face.  "  That 
you're  a  queer  fellow,"  whispered  Gilbert,  as  though  he  had  relieved 
himself  of  an  important  secret. 

"  Queer  ?    How  ?" 

"  To  day,  you're  seen  in  the  service  of  Old  Isaac.  To-morrow,  you  are 
found  in  the  Black-House  'way  up  the  Wissahikon,  in  the  service  of  the 
Priest  and  his  Son — the — the — Monk  of  Wissahikon.  You  don't  seem 
to  have  any  place  to  live,  and  nobody  knows  much  about  you,  anyhow  1" 


58  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  me  raise  the  Devil  ?"  said  that  low  musical 
voice,  and  again  the  expression,  which  we  cannot  depict,  passed  over 
Black  David's  face. 

Gilbert  started  to  his  feet,  and  clutched  his  rifle  with  a  firmer  grasp. 

"  Take  keer,  I  say  !  None  of  your  dark  tricks  here  !"  and  he  brought 
the  rifle  to  his  shoulder. 

The  deformed  arose.  He  raised  his  white  hands.  The  moon,  stream- 
ing over  the  top  of  the  rock,  bathed  them  in  soft  light,  while  his  face  and 
figure  were  wrapt  in  shadow. 

There  was  something  horrible  to  Gilbert,  in  that  face  veiled  in  shadow, 
while  the  uplifted  Jaands  glowed  in  the  pale  moonlight. 

"  Take  keer  !"  he  shouted  again,  his  form  agitated  by  a  perceptible 
tremor — **  None  of  yer  devil's  tricks  on  me,  I  say  !" 

"  Shall  I  invoke  his  presence  from  the  stream,  which  spreads  black  and 
vague  beneath  us  ?  On  this  rock  shall  I  stand  and  say  the  words,  and 
speak  the  spells  which  will  bring  to  your  side — to  yours,  strong  man — the 
Enemy  of  Mankind  ?  Oh,  you  feel  your  blood  curdle,  you  grow  cold 
with  Tear — you — you — the  stout  hunter,  who  never  felt  before  what  it  is 
to  fear!''' 

The  moon  shone  upon  Gilbert's  face.  Those  brown  features  were 
agitated  with  an  intensity  of  fear*  The  eyes  glassy,  the  lips  parted,  the 
veins  along  the  bared  throat  writhing  as  if  in  extreme  physical  torture — 
he  looked  like  an  embodied  image  of  fear. 

"  Take  keer !"  he  growled  again — "One  word  more,  and  I  fire  !" 

"  You  have  dared  to  prate  of  me  1  You,  a  miserable  earth-worm, 
whom  I  can  crush  with  a  word  ?  By  my  soul,  I  have  a  strange  whim,  to 
punish  you  for  your  impertinence.  Shall  I  give  you  into  the  power  of 
the  spirits  who  people  this  wintry  air  ?  Shall  I  speak,  and  lo  !  do  you 
not  feel  it  already  1  That  invisible  hand,  cold  as  death,  pressed  against 
your  cheek  ?" 

The  stout  hunter  shook  as  with  an  ague-chill.  And  yet,  in  his  very 
trembling,  he  was  firm  and  brave.  Awed  by  Black  David's  words, 
chilled  by  his  voice,  fascinated  by  the  strange  power  of  his  eyes,  he 
raised  his  rifle,  and  took  deliberate  aim  at  the  breast  of  the  hunchback. 

"  Now  raise  your  Devils,  if  you  kin.  Just  try  it,  and  I'll  put  this 
bullet  through  yer  breast !" 

Black  David  murmured  some  words  in  an  unknown  tongue.  A  sharp 
report  broke  the  grave-like  silence,  and  was  redoubled  in  a  thousand 
echoes.  Up,  slowly  into  the  moonlight  floated  the  blue  smoke  of  the 
rifle.  The  aim  was  deadly  ;  the  muzzle  almost  touched  the  breast  of 
the  victim. 

As  the  smoke  rolled  away,  Gilbert — his  brow  damp  with  moisture — 
started  forward,  and  looked,  with  dilating  eyes,  for  the  mangled  form  of 
that  victim. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  59 

Black  David  was  there,  but  neither  mangled  nor  bleeding.  There,  be- 
fore the  affrighted  hunter,  his  horse-like  face  framed  in  his  matted  hair 
and  beard,  his  small  hands  uplifted  in  the  moonlight. 

The  rifle  fell  from  the  Hunter's  palsied  hands. 

He  had  endured  much  in  his  time ;  wandered  far  away  among  the  gorges 
of  the  Alleghanies  for  days,  without  food ;  he  had  tracked  the  panther  into 
his  lair,  deep  in  the  shadows  of  some  pathless  cavern,  and  faced  the  Red 
Savage,  in  his  deadliest  rage;  he  was  a  man  of  iron  nerve  and  fearless 
soul.  It  may  be,  that  his  hands  were  stained  with  innocent  blood,  for  his 
life  had  been  nurtured  into  robust  vigor,  among  scenes  and  with  men  of 
the  darkest  and  most  lawless  character. 

But  now  he  trembled  like  a  child  in  the  dark,  frightened  at  its  own 
footstep.  He  did  not  fear  the  hunchback,  with  his  distorted  form,  and 
long  unnatural  face,  but  he  was  afraid  of  that  which  palsies  the  stoutest 
arm,  and  chills  the  firmest  heart — that  terrible  something,  which  we  ex- 
press in  the  simple  words — 

"  The  other  world  !" 

Therefore,  as  the  rifle  fell  from  his  stiffening  fingers,  he  stood  trembling 
in  every  nerve,  with  arms  outspread,  and  face  bathed  with  cold  moisture, 
while  the  moonlight  still  glowed  upon  the  white  hands  of  the  Deformed. 

"Yer  no  man,  but  a  Devil !  I  aimed  at  yer  breast — and  my  eye's  good 
to  snuff  a  candle  at  a  hundred  yards !  I  loaded  the  rifle  myself ;  'twas 
a  sure  ball,  and  there  yo'  ar',  'live  as  ever !" 

In  answer  to  his  incoherent  exclamations,  the  voice  of  Black  David 
broke  softly  on  the  stilled  air. 

"  Do  you  feel  the  hand  upon  your  cheek  ?  It  is  cold — very  cold,  for  it  is 
the  hand  of  a  dead  man.  You  may  turn — but  you  cannot  see  it !  Still 
it  is  there,  pressing  its  icy  fingers  on  your  cheek',,  invisible,  yet  palpable  as 
life,  and  cold  as  death  !" 

With  his  small  hand,  he  lifted  the  matted  hair  from  his  forehead.  Gil- 
bert beheld  it,  saw  the  fair  white  skin — much  fairer  and  clearer  than  the 
lower  part  of  the  face — marked  by  a  livid  cross,  like  the  half-healed  cica- 
trice of  some  hideous  wound. 

"  And  did  you  think  to  kill  me  ?"  he  cried,  in  that  voice,  which,  scarcely 
audible,  thrilled  the  listener  to  the  heart,  and  startled  the  stillness  with  its 
unearthly  accent.  "  Me  ?  Do  you  behold  that  sign  ?"  His  eyes  gleamed 
a  sad  and  tender  light.  "  Take  the  knife  from  your  belt ;  strike  at  my 
heart — strike  !" 

He  flung  the  mantle  from  his  shoulders.  The  hideous  deformity  of  his 
figure  was  made  more  painfully  distinct,  by  a  close-fitting  dress  of  dark 
hues,  which  revealed  the  large  body  supported  by  crooked  and  slender 
limbs,  the  wide  chest,  with  the  face  resting  upon  it,  the  long  arms,  high 
shoulders,  and  back  rising  in  a  shapeless  hump. 


60  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  Take  your  knife.  Strike.  Do  not  fear — the  sharp  blade  may  drive 
the  life  from  this  distorted  form  !" 

Gilbert  did  not  touch  his  knife.  His  senses  were  enchained  by  the 
eyes  of  the  Deformed  ;  that  steady  gaze  held  him,  dumb  and  motionless. 

"  Let — me — go  !"  he  faltered  in  a  whisper.  "  Take  yer  eyes  off  oj 
me — I  can't  move.    Mercy — if  yo'  b'lieve  in  a  God — mercy  !" 

He  fell  on  his  knees,  yes,  sinking  on  the  snow  which  covered  the  sod, 
and,  by  its  spiritual  white,  made  the  clear  Wissahikon  look  black  and 
spectral,  he  folded  his  arms  upon  his  brawny  chest,  and  his  head  drooped 
slowly,  until  his  face  was  hidden  from  the  moon. 

It  seemed  to  him — the  hardy  woodsman — as  though  all  power  of  mind 
and  body  had  passed  from  his  form  into  the  breast  of  the  hunchback. 

Even  the  power  of  speech  failed  him.  His  senses  were  dulled  by  a 
drowsy  languor;  the  sound  of  the  Wissahikon,  roaring  over  its  rocky  bed, 
seemed  afar  off,  and  soon  died  away  in  a  hollow  murmur. 

Gazing  upon  the  prostrate  huntsman,  Black  David  ^tood  erect,  with  the 
moonbeams — stealing  over  the  edge  of  the  rock — slowly  lighting  up  his 
strange  face,  and  brow  seared  by  a  livid  cross.  Around  his  lips,  a  smile 
of  inexpressible  scorn  played  fitfully,  while  the  light  of  his  eyes  grew 
more  intense  and  spectral. 

"  Rise  !"  he  said,  after  some  moments  had  passed. 

The  herculean  hunter  slowly  rose,  stretching  forth  his  arms  with  a 
gesture  of  pain,  like  a  man  who  has  lain  for  hours  in  a  cramped  and 
uneasy  posture. 

"  Take  up  your  rifle !" 

Gilbert  obeyed.  « 

"  Go  on  your  way.  Do  your  duty,  without  fear.  At  the  hour  of  One 
— remember— the  House  of  the  Brothers  !    Go  !" 

Retreating  toward  the  rock,  Black  David  pointed  to  the  west,  with  the 
delicate  fingers  of  his  right  hand. 

Slowly,  Gilbert  passed  him.  Without  looking  to  the  right  or  left,  he 
hurried  into  the  shadows  of  the  narrow  dell,  through  which  the  mill- 
stream  poured  into  the  Wissahikon.  He  crossed  the  brook,  now  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock,  now  passing  securely  over  the  ice.  Ascending  the  op- 
posite hill,  with  one  foot  advanced  towards  the  west,  he  turned  his  head 
over  his  shoulder,  and,  with  a  shudder,  looked  back. 

Beneath  the  rock,  Black  David  stood,  his  form  lost  in  shadow,  while 
the  moon  played  freely  over  his  face,  and  revealed  his  white  forehead, 
marked  by  the  livid  cross.  With  his  left  hand,  he  raised  the  matted  hair, 
with  the  right  still  pointing  to  the  west — 

"When  I  call,  you  will  come  to  me  !"  Gilbert  heard  his  voice,  rising 
in  deep  emphasis — "  Miles  may  separate  us,  mountains  may  intervene, 
rivers  howl  between  us,  still  you  will  hear  my  voice,  and  you  will  obey !" 

At  the  same  moment  Gilbert  saw  a  form  advance  from  the  pines,  and 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  61 

stand  in  the  bright  moonlight,  on  the  summit  of  the  rock.  It  was  the 
figure  of  a  man,  whose  black  attire  was  tinted  by  the  rays,  as,  with  hands 
clasped,  he  stood  motionless  upon  the  level  summit  of  the  granite  mass, 
his  shadowed  face  turned  toward  the  Wissahikon. 

"  The  Monk !"  he  cried,  and — utterly  bewildered  by  the  events  of  the 
last  hour, — rushed  on  his  westward  way,  his  head  bent  upon  his  breast, 
and  his  rifle  on  his  shoulder. 

Meanwhile,  upon  the  summit  of  the  rock  stood  the  motionless  form, 
clad  in  a  sombre  robe  reaching  to  his  knees, — the  face  turned  from  the 
moon — and  the  long,  flowing  black  hair,  surmounted  by  a  velvet  cap. 

His  hands  were  clasped,  and  the  silver  cross  gleamed  faintly  on  his 
dark  dress.  It  was  a  noble  form,  and  the  face,  wrapt  in  half-shadow,  was 
softened  by  an  emotion  which  parted  the  lips,  and  gave  the  large  eyes  a 
light  at  once  sad  and  tender. 

Alone  upon  the  rock-  the  wild  woods  around — the  intense  sky  above — 
he  stood,  while  his  dark  form  rose  boldly  into  light,  from  the  snow-covered 
earth. 

He  raised  his  gaze  to  the  sky — it  was  there,  so  deep,  so  bright,  so  beau- 
tiful, like  a  great  curtain,  hung  between  his  eyes  and  that  awful  World  of 
Eternity,  crowded  with  spirits  of  Light  and  Darkness. 

The  air  was  breathlessly  still.  The  long  prolonged  howl  of  the  watch- 
dog came  from  afar  with  an  unearthly  cadence ;  the  waves  of  the  Wissa- 
hikon filled  the  hollows  in  the  rocks  with  faint  murmurs. 

Save  these  sounds,  all  was  still. 

The  eyes  which  gleamed  from  that  bronzed  face  grew  brighter  and 
more  lustrous,  even  as  they  were  wet  with  tears. 

For  the  soul  of  the  young  man  was'  elevated  and  purified,  by  the  su- 
pernatural solemnity  of  the  winter  night  upon  the  Wissahikon.  To  him,  , 
the  great  sky  was  no  vague  blank  in  the  Universe.  It  was  crowded  with 
the  Spirit  People  of  many  tongues,  tribes  and  forms.  The  Stars  above 
were  the  Homes  of  Souls,  many  good,  many  evil,  some  lost  in  crimes, 
and  some  pure  as  the  light  of  God. 

And  even  through  the  blue  sky,  he  could  look  up,  and  see  these  spirits 
— or  to  speak  in  language  which  may  be  more  intelligible — these  Men 
and  Women  of  a  purer  and  diviner  creation,  circling  in  myriad  throngs 
of  light  and  darkness.  Some  with  their  faces  glowing  ineffable  love,  and 
others  wearing  upon  their  foreheads  the  fiery  scorn  of  passion,  defiance 
and  despair. 

For,  from  very  childhood,  he  had  been  taught  to  believe,  that  even  as 
the  chain  of  physical  existence  begins  With  rudest  beasts  and  almost 
imperceptible  reptiles,  and  extends  upward  to  Man,  so  from  Man  up  to 
God,  the  chain  of  Spiritual  Life  extended  in  one  unbroken  line,  creation 
crowding  on  creation,  and  tribes  of  spirits  rising  above  other  tribes, 


62  PAUL  ARDENHELM;  OR, 

until  the  universe  beheld  its  supreme  source  and  fountain  in  the  Great 
Father  of  Eternity. 

Therefore,  to  him,  the  beautiful  sky  did  not  seem  a  vague  blank  in 
creation,  peopled  only  with  stars,  that  were  desert  worlds. 

Nor  did  the  rivulet,  tossing  among  its  ice-covered  rocks,  nor  the  leafless 
trees  around  it,  rising  bleakly  from  the  snowy  earth,  nor  the  deep  glens, 
sunken  here  and  there  on  the  borders  of  the  gorge  of  Wissahikon,  wear 
only  their  external  forms  of  wildness  and  beauty. 

They  were  peopled  with  absorbing  associations  ;  not  a  rock  but  had 
its  own  interest,  not  a  tree  but  waved  in  the  moonlight,  stirred  by  some 
hand,  to  him  invisible.  The  very  air  was  thronged — dense— with  the 
Spirit  People. 

Ere  you  smile  at  the  young  man,  and  scorn  his  spiritual  belief,  let  me 
impress  a  few  facts  distinctly  on  your  minds. 

He  has  never  passed  the  space  of  an  hour's  journey  from  the  gorge 
of  Wissahikon. 

His  mind  has  been  shaped  in  solitude  ;  in  an  ancient  mansion,  centered 
among  these  woods,  he  has  lived  since  that  hour  of  childhood,  which  has 
but  a  faint  mist,  in  place  of  Memory. 

For  some  reason — hereafter  to  be  explained  a  solemn  charge  has 

heen  laid  upon  his  soul,  never  to  permit  his  footsteps  to  wander  from  the 
valley  of  Wissahikon,  nor  to  gaze  long  upon  the  faces  of  men,  much  less 
to  enter  into  the  spirit  and  the  purposes  of  their  every-day  thoughts. 

Within  the  Block-House,  with  no  companionship  save  the  aged  man, 
his  father,  and  the  fair  girl,  his  sister,  he  has  grown  up  to  young  manhood. 
That  sister  he  loves,  but  it  is  with  a  love,  calm  and  serene  as  the  stars. 

That  Love  which  burns  and  devours  and  maddens,  has  yet  to  come  ! 

And  he  has  yet  to  behold  that  horrible  libel  on  the  Universe  of  God, 
that  ulcer  on  the  bosom  of  creation,  that  foul  Congress  of  demoniac  pas- 
sions, some  tinseled  with  gold,  and  others  naked  as  unveiled  Devils  

he  has  yet,  arid  for  the  first  time  to  behold  the  Great  City. 

Look  upon  him  now,  as  he  stands  upon  the  rock,  so  serene  in  his 
young  manhood,  his  bronzed  face  softened  by  emotions  vast  and  ineffable 
as  the  great  Universe  which  shuts  him  in. 

His  voice  is  heard  ;  he  speaks  aloud,  while,  crouching  in  the  shadow 
of  the  very  rock  on  which  he  stands,  Black  David  hears  his  every  word, 
and  smiles. 

"Shall  I — I — that  have  been  nurtured  among  these  solitudes,  and  taught 
to  see  God  in  every  flower,  to  hear  his  Spirit  in  every  breeze — shall  I 
ever  share  the  tumult  and  the  hatred  of  the  great  world,  which  lies  be- 
yond the  Wissahikon  !" 

He  paused,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

But,  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock,  Black  David  spoke — 


THE  MONK  O.''  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


63 


«  You  shall  !  With  the  hilt  in  your  hand,  and  the  point  to  the  heart 
of  your  foe,  you  will  wield  the  sword,  and  feel  how  deep  the  joy  of 
shedding  blood !" 

He  did  not  hear  that  voice,  which,  like  a  mocking  echo,  spoke,  ere  his 
words  had  died  away. 

"And  woman — shall  I  ever  look  upon  her,  but  as  some  Pure  Angel, 
enshrined  in  the  light  flowing  from  the  fountain  of  her  own  holiness  ? 
This  madness  of  passion — of  which  the  Poets  speak — this  devouring 
frenzy,  which  tramples  alike  on  truth  and  honor,  and  reaps  its  harvest 
in  the  desolation  of  some  virgin  soul,  in  the  infamy  of  some  unpolluted 
body — shall  it  ever  burn  within  my  veins  ?" 

Still,  from  the  shadow  of  the  rock,  the  hunchback  answered,  with  his 
smile,  that  was  cold  as  the  moonbeam  playing  on  the  snow  : 

"  It  shall  !  Even  at  this  moment,  she  gazes  proudly  in  her  mirror, 
and  surveys  the  passionate  beauty  of  her  heaving  breast,  and  wonders 
when  he  that  is  to  love  her  will  appear  !" 

Still  this  voice,  speaking  its  scorn  and  its  prophecy  from  the  shadow, 
did  not  reach  the  ears  of  the  young  man  who  stood  upon  the  rock. 

With  his  face,  so  bold  and  thoughtful  in  every  outline,  hallowed  by  an 
emotion  that  was  very  much  like  Prayer — Prayer  at  once  sublime  and 
voiceless — he  uncovered  his  brow,  and.  his  long  black  hair  floated  freely 
on  the  wind. 

His  lustrous  eyes  upraised,  he  stretched  toward  the  sky  his 
sinewy  arm,  and  again  his  bold  deep  voice  startled  the  Sabbath  still- 
ness— 

"  Here  be  my  lot  forever,  0  Father  !  Here,  where  Thy  name  is  writ- 
ten by  the  stars  in  the  bosom  of  the  waters,  and  the  heart  dwells  with 
itself,  and  has  no  ambition  but'  to  tremble  nearer  to  its  God  !  Here,  as 
long  as  my  soul  wears  this  drapery  of  mortality,  may  I  dwell,  and  see.k 
no  purer  joy  than  to  lead  my  father  softly  down  the  last  steps  of  life 
that  lie  between  him  and  the  grave,  and  know  no  deeper  care  than  to 
watch  the  soul  of  my  stainless  sister — and  love  it  more  serenely — as  it  blos- 
soms into  its  perfect  bloom  !" 

As  he  spoke,  a  voice,  sudden  and  abrupt,  sounded  at  his  side — 

"  Lord  of  Ardenheim" — 

He  turned  with  a  sudden  gesture,  and  saw  a  deformed  figure,  bending 
respectfully,  nay,  in  an  attitude  of  servile  obedience,  before  him. 

"  It  it  you,  David?"  he  cried,  somewhat  startled  by  the  voice,  and  the 
strange  words,  which  had  been  uttered,  so  abruptly,  in  his  very  ear. 
"  The  poor  hunchback,  whose  reason  is  lost  in  a  hopeless  chaos  !"  he 
muttered  to  himself. 

At  the  same  time,  clasping  his  hands  and  bending  his  head,  until  the 
matted  hair  concealed  his  face,  David  stood  before  the  young  man,  like  a 
servant  who  awaits  his  master's  commands. 


64  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  What  were  those  strange  words  which  you  uttered,  but  a  moment 
past  ?"  he  said,  looking  in  compassion  upon  the  deformed  wretch. 

'*  Nothing — my  good  master,  nothing — only — but  poor  David's  mind 
wanders.  David  is  cold — he  cannot  remember  what  he  has  heard.  An 
old  man  in  danger.  Yo'  see  the  robbers  are  a-goin'  to  murder  him  ;  so 
I  heard  them  say.  An  old  man  with  white  hair — alone  in  a  big  house — 
and  a  daughter  poor  David's  brain  is  very — very  dark — " 

"  There  is  some  dark  truth  in  this  chaos  of  confused  memories" — the 
thought  flashed  over  the  mind  of  Paul  Ardenheim — "  Robbers,  did  you 
say  ?  An  old  man  in  danger  ?  Where,  David — speak  to  Paul — he  is 
your  friend.     Tell  him  of  these  robbers." 

In  his  compassion  for  the  wandering  intellect,  the  bodily  and  mental 
decrepitude  of  Black  David,  Paul  was  wont  to  speak  to  him  as  to  a  way- 
ward child. 

u  It  was — it  was — "  and  the  hunchback  laid  his  hand  upon  his  forehead, 
as  if  in  the  attempt  to  fix  some  vagrant  memory. 

"  Yes — the  robbers  —  the  old  man — "  gasped  Paul,  with  impatient 
earnestness. 

"On  the  Wissahikon— -"  slowly  exclaimed  Black    David— *  The 

mansion  on  the  hill  near  the  Schuylkill,  under  the  tall  pines  " 

"  Isaac  Van  Behme?"  asked  Paal,  laying  his  hand  on  the  hunchback's 
arm. 

"  Yes— Isaac  the  Wizard  !"  cried  Black  David,  with  a  sudden  joy- 
flashing  4rom  his  eyes—"  That's  the  old  man.  I  heerd  'em  jist  now— 
under  the  rock— they've  gone  to  murder  him.  You  see,  poor  David  is 
weak.    Paul  is  strong.    And  " 

There  came  over  the  young  man's  face  an  expression  of  determina- 
tion, which  compressed  his  lips,  and  gave  a  deeper  light  to  his  eyes. 
His  arching  brows — black  and  almost  crescent-shaped — were  shadowed 
by  a  slight  frown.  As  he  turned  to  the  moonlight,  the  silver  cross  rose 
and  fell,  on  his  heaving  chest. 

«  Thanks,  good  David,"  he  said,  kindly  pressing  the  hunchback's 
hand.    "  By  the  blessing  of  God,  I  will  save  the  old  man  !"  % 

He  descended  from  the  rock,  and  presently,  his  form,  attired  in  its 
sombre  robes,  was  seen  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  mill-stream,  on  the 
very  spot  where  Gilbert  had  stood  and  looked  back,  but  a  few  moments 
before. 

And  from  the  top  of  the  solitary  rock,  Black  David  contemplated  him, 
folding  his  arms,  and  standing  as  motionless  as  the  great  mass  beneath 
his  feet,  as  he  beheld  that  commanding  figure— the  face  whose  features 
were  shadowed  in  the  gloom— the  breast  glittering  with  the  silver  cross. 

The  eyes  of  Black  David  grew  vivid  in  their  light,  as,  brushing  aside 
the  matted  hair  from  his  forehead,  he  disclosed  the  Dark  Cross,  traced 
on  its  fair  hues. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  65 

"  You  go  on  a  sirange  pathway,  my  Lord  Paul,  Count  of  Ardenheim 
and  Baron  of  Lyndulfe  !  Nero  was  once  a  dreaming  boy,  and  Judas  a 
pure  Disciple  !  Borgia,  the  Pope,  was,  in  his  young  manhood,  an  ex- 
ample of  generous  friendship  and  chivalrous  honor.  And  yet  Nero 
made  merry  music  while  Rome  was  in  flames  — Nero  looked  with  licen- 
tious curiosity  upon  the  dead  mother,  whom  his  own  hand  had  slain. 
Judas  betrayed  the  Lord,  who  had  broken  bread  with  him,  and  sent  the 
Man-God  who  had  loved  him,  to  an  ignominious  death.  Borgia  became 
the  Demon-Pope,  the  lover  of  his  own  child,  the  " 

He  paused,  and  the  moon,  shining  upon  his  brow,  scarred  by  the  livid 
cross,  revealed  the  strange  agitation  of  his  large  eyes,  his  quivering  lips, 

and  hollow  cheeks,  as  once  more  he  whispered  in  his  musical  voice  

You  go  on  a  strange  pathway,  my  Lord  Paul,  Count  of  Ardenheim 
and  Baron  of  Lyndulfe  !" 

And  the  words  had  not  passed  his  lips,  when  Paul  disappeared  among 
the  shadows  of  the  leafless  trees. 


CHAPTER  FIFTH. 

THE  MONASTERY. 

*  Ere  we  follow  the  footsteps  of  Paul  Ardenheim,  let  us  turn  back  in 
our  history,  and  behold  a  scene  which  occurred  some  months  before,  when 
the  blush  of  June  was  upon  the  Wissahikon  woods. 

It  stood  in  the  shadows  of  the  Wissahikon  woods,  that  ancient  Mon- 
astery, its  dark  walls  canopied  by  the  boughs  of  a  gloomy  pine,  inter- 
woven with  leaves  of  grand  old  oaks. 

From  the  waters  of  the  wood-hidden  stream,  a  winding  road  led  up  to 
its  gates  ;  a  winding  road  overhung  with  tall,  rank  grass,  and  sheltered 
from  the  light  by  the  thick  branches  above. 

A  Monastery  ?  Yes,  a  Monastery,  here  amid  the  wilds  of  Wissahikon, 
in  the  year  of  Grace,  1774  ;  a  Monastery  built  upon  the  soil  of  William 
Penn ! 

Let  me  paint  it  for  you,  at  the  close  of  this  calm  summer  day. 

The  beams  of  the  sun,  declining  far  in  the  west,  shoot  between  the 
thickly  gathered  leaves,  and  light  up  the  green  sward  around  those 
massive  gates,  and  stream  with  sudden  glory  over  the  dark  old  walls.  It 

5 


66  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

is  a  Monastery,  yet  here  we  behold  no  swelling  dome,  no  Gothic  turrets, 
no  walls  of  massive  stone.  A  huge  square  edifice,  built  one  hundred 
years  ago  of  the  trunks  of  giant  oaks  and  pines,  it  rises  amid  the  woods, 
like  the  temple  of  some  long-forgotten  religion.  The  roof  is  broken  into 
many  fantastic  forms  ; — here  it  rises  in  a  steep  gable,  yonder  the  heavy 
logs  are  laid  prostrate;  again  they  swell  into  a  shapeless  mass,  as  though 
stricken  by  a  hurricane. 

Not  many  windows  are  there  in  the  dark  old  walls,  but  to  the  west 
four  large  square  spaces,  framed  in  heavy  pieces  of  timber,  brmk  on  your 
eye,  while  on  the  other  sides  the  old  house  presents  one  blank  mass  of 
logs,  rising  on  logs. 

No  :  not  one  blank  mass,  for  at  this  time  of  year,  when  the  breath  of 
June  hides  the  Wissahikon  in  a  world  of  leaves,  The  old  Monastery  looks 
like  a  grim  soldier,  who,  scathed  by  time  and  battle,  wears  yet  thick 
wreaths  of  laurel  over  his  armor,  and  about  his  brow. 

Green  vines  girdle  the  ancient  house  on  every  side.  From  the  squares 
of  the  dark  windows,  from  the  intervals  of  the  massive  logs,  they  hang 
in  luxuriant  festoons,  while  the  shapeless  roof  is  all  one  mass  of  leaves. 

Nay,  even  the  wall  of  logs  which  extends  around  the  old  house,  with  a 
ponderous  gate  to  the  west,  is  green  with  the  touch  of  June.  Not  a  trunk 
but  blooms  with  some  drooping  vine  ;  even  the  gateposts,  each  a  solid 
column  of  oak,  seem  to  wave  to  and  fro,  as  the  summer  breeze  plays  with 
their  d>apery  of  green  leaves. 

It  is  a  sad,  still  hour.  The  beams  of  the  sun  stream  with  fitful  splendor 
over  the  green  sward.  That  strange  old  mansion  seems  as  sad  and  deso- 
late as  the  tomb.  But  suddenly — hark  !  Do  you  hear  the  clanking  of 
those  bolts,  the  crashing  of  the  unclosing  gates  ? 

The  gates  creak  slowly  aside  ! — let  us  steal  behind  this  cluster  of  pines*, 
and  gaze  upon  the  inhabitants  of  the  Monastery,  as  they  come  forth  for 
their  evening  walk. 

Three  figures  issue  from  the  opened  gates.  An  old  man,  whose  withered 
features  and  white  hairs  are  thrown  strongly  into  the  fading  light  by  his 
long  robe  of  dark  velvet.  On  one  arm  leans  a  young  girl,  also  dressed 
in  black,  her  golden  hair  falling — not  in  ringlets — but  in  rich  masses,  to 
her  shoulders.  She  bends  upon  his  arm,  and  with  that  living  smile  upon 
her  lips,  and  in  her  eyes,  looks  up  into  his  face.  N 

On  the  other  arm,  a  young  man,  whose  form,  swelling  with  the  proud 
outlines  of  early  manhood,  is  attired  in  a  robe  or  gown,  dark  as  his 
father's,  while  his  bronzed  face,  shaded  by  curling  brown  hair,  seems  to 
reflect  the  silent  thought  written  upon  the  old  man's  brow. 

They  pace  slowly  along  the  sod.  Not  a  word  is  spoken.  The  old 
man  raises  his  eyes,  and  lifts  the  square  cap  from  his  brow — look  !  how 
that  golden  beam  plays  along  his  brow,  while  the  evening  breeze  tosses 
his  white  hairs.    There  is  much  suffering,  many  deep  traces  of  the  Past, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  67 

written  on  his  wrinkled  face,  but  the  light  of  a  wild  enthusiasm  beams 
from  his  blue  eyes.  # 

The  young  man — his  dark  eyes,  wildly  glaring,  fixed  upon  the  sod — 
moves  by  the  old  man's  side,  but  speaks  no  word. 

The  girl,  that  image  of  maidenly  grace,  nurtured  into  beauty  within  an 
hour's  journey  of  the  city,  and  yet  afar  from  the  world,  still  bends  over 
that  aged  armband  looks  smilingly  into  that  withered  face,  her  glossy 
hair  waving  in  the  summer  wind. 

Who  are  these,  that  com$  hither,  pacing  at  the  evening  hour,  along  the 
wild  moss  ?    The  father  and  his  children  ! 

What  means  that  deep,  strange  light,  flashing  not  only  from  the  blue 
eyes  of  the  father,  but  from  the  dark  eyes  of  his  son  ? 

Does  it  need  a  second  glance  to  tell  you,  that  it  is  the  light  of  Fanati- 
cism, that  distortion  of  Faith — the  wild  glare  of  Superstition,  that  deform- 
ity of  Religion  ? 

The  night  comes  slowly  down.  Still  the  Father  and  Son  pace  the 
ground  in  silence,  while  the  breeze  freshens  and  makes  low  music  among 
the  leaves.  —  Still  the  young  girl,  bending  over  the  old  man's  arm,  smiles 
tenderly  in  his  face,  as  though  she  would  drive  the  sadness  from  his  brow 
with  one  gleam  of  her  mifd  blue  eyes. 

At  last — within  the  shadows  of  the  gate,  their  faces  lighted  by  the  last 
gleam  of  the"  setting  sun  —  the  old  man  and  his  son  stand  like  figures  of 
stone,  while  each  grasps  a  hand  of  the  young  girl. 

Is  it%ot  a  strange  yet  beautiful  picture  1  The  old  Monastery  forms 
one  dense  mass  of  shade  ;  on  either  side  extends  the  darkening  forest, 
yet  here,  within  the  portals  of  the  gate,  the  three  figures  are  grouped, 
while  a  warm,  soft  mass  of  tufted  moss,  spreads  before  them.  The  proud 
manhood  of  the  son,  contrasted  with  the  white  locks  of  the  father,  the 
tender  yet  voluptuous  beauty  of  the  girl  relieving  the  thought'  and  sad- 
ness which  glooms  over  each  brow. 

Hold— the  Father  presses  the  wrist  of  his  Son  with  a  convulsive  grasp 
— hush  !    Do  you  hear  thaulow  deep  whisper  ? 

"  At  last,  it  comes  to  my  soul;  the  Fulfilment  of  Prophecy  !"  he  whis- 
pers and  is  silent  again,  but  his  lip  trembles  and  his  eye  glares. 

"  But  the  time— Father— Me  lime?"  the  Son  replies  in  the  same  deep 
voice,  while  his  eye,  dilating,  fires  with  the  same  feeling  that  swells  his 
Father's  heart. 

"7%e  last  day  of  this  year— the  third  hour  after  midnight— the  De- 
liverer will  come  !" 

These  words  may  seem  lame  and  meaningless,  when  spoken  again,  but 
had  you  seen  the  look  that  kindled  over  the  old  man's  face,  his  white 
hand  raised  above  his  head,  had  you  heard  his  deep  voice  swelling  through 
the  silence  of  the  woods,  each  word  would  ring  on  your  ear,  as  though  it 
quivered  from  a  spirit's  tongue. 


G3  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

Then  the  old  man  and  his  son  knelt  on  the  sod,  while  the  young 
girl — looking  in  their  faces  with  wonder  and  awe— sank  silently  beside 
them.  * 

The  tones  of  Prayer  broke  upon  the  stillness  of  the  darkening  woods. 

Tell  us  the  meaning  of  this  scene.  Wherefore  call  this  huge  edifice, 
whose  dark  logs  are  clothed  in  green  leaves,  by  the  old-world  name  of 
Monastery  ?  Who  are  these — father,  son  and  daughter — that  dwell  with- 
in its  walls  ? 

Seventeen  years  ago — from  this  year  of  Grace,  1774, — there  came  to 
the  wilds  of  the  Wissahikon,  a  man  in  the  prime  of  mature  manhood,  clad 
in  a  long,  dark  robe,  with  a  cross  of  silver  gleaming  on  his  breast.  With 
one  arm  he  gathered  to  his  heart  a  smiling  babe,  a  little  girl,  whose  golden 
hair  floated  over  his  dark  dress  like  sunshine  over  a  pall  ;  by  the  other 
hand  he  led  a  dark-haired  boy. 

His  name,  his  origin,  his  object  in  the  wilderness,  no  one  knew  ;  but 
purchasing  the  ruined  Block-House,  which  bore  on  its  walls  and  timbers 
the  marks  of  many  an  Indian  fight,  he  shut  himself  out  from  all  the  world. 
His  son,  his  daughter,  grew  up  together  in  this  wild  solitude.  The  voice 
of  prayer  was  often  heard,  at  dead  of  night,  by  the  belated  huntsman, 
swelling  from  the  silence  of  the  lonely  house. 

By  slow  degrees,  whether  from  the  cross  which  the  old  stranger  wore 
upon  his  breast,  or  from  the  sculptured  images  which  had  been  seen  with- 
in the  walls  of  his  forest  home,  the  place  was  called — the  Monastery — 
and  its  occupant  the  Priest. 

Had  he  been  drawn  from  his  native  home  by  crime  ?  Was  his  name 
enrolled  among  the  titled  and  the  great  of  his  Father-land,  Germany  ? 
Or,  perchance,  he  was  one  of  those  stern  visionaries,  the  Pietists  of 
Germany,  who,  lashed  alike  by  Catholic  and  Protestant  persecutors, 
brought  to  the  wilds  of  Wissahikon  their  beautiful  Fanaticism  ? 

For  that  Fanaticism,  professed  by  a  band  of  brothers,  who,  years  before, 
driven  from  Germany,  came  here  to  Wissahikon,  built  their  Monastery, 
and  worshipped  God,  without  a  written  creed,  was  beautiful. 

It  was  a  wild  belief,  tinctured  •with  the  dreams  of  Alchemists,  it  may 
be,  yet  still  full  of  faith  in  God,  and  love  to  man.  Persecuted  by  the 
Protestants  of  Germany,  as  it  was  by  the  Catholics  of  France,  it  still 
treasured  the  Bible  as  its  law  and  the  Cross  as  its  symbol. 

The  Monastery,  in  which  the  brothers  of  the  faith  lived  for  long  years, 
was  situated  on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  not  a  mile  from  the  old  Block-House. 
Here  the  Brothers  had  dwelt,  in  the  deep  serenity  of  their  own  hearts, 
until  one  evening  they  gathered  in  their  garden,  around  the  form  of  their 
dying  father,  who  yielded  his  soul  to  God  in  their  midst,  while  the  setting 
sun  and  the  calm  silence  of  universal  nature  gave  a  strange  grandeur  to 
the  scene. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  69 

But  it  was  not  with  this  Brotherhood  that  the  stranger  of  the  Block- 
House  held  communion. 

His  communion  was  with  the  dark-eyed  son,  who  grew  up,  drinking 
the  fanaticism  of  his  father,  in  many  a  midnight  watch;  with  the  golden- 
haired  daughter,  whose  smile  was  wont  to  drive  the  gloom  from  his  brow, 
the  wearing  anxiety  from  his  heart. 

Who  was  the  stranger?  No  one  knew.  The  farmer  of  the  Wissa- 
hikon  had  often  seen  his  dark-robed  form,  passi%  like  a  ghost  under  the 
solemn  pines  ;  the  wandering  huntsman  had  many  a  time,  on  his  mid- 
night ramble,  heard  the  sounds  of  prayer  breaking  along  the  silence  of  the 
woods  from  the  Block-House  walls  :  yet  still  the  life,  origin,  objects  of 
the  stranger  were  wrapt  in  impenetrable  mystery. 

Would  you  know  more  of  his  life  ?  Would  you  penetrate  the  mystery 
of  this  dim  old  Monastery,  shadowed  by  the  thickly-clustered  oaks  and 
pines,  shut  out  from  the  world  by  the  barrier  of  impenetrable  forests  ? 

Would  you  know  the  meaning  of  those  strange  words,  uttered  by  the 
old  man,  on  the  calm  summer  evening  1 

Come  with  me,  then — at  midnight — on  the  last  night  of  1774.  We 
will  enter  the  Block-House  together,  and  behold  a  scene,  which,  derived 
from  a  tradition  of  the  past,  is  well  calculated  to  thrill  the  heart  with 
a  deep  awe. 

It  is  midnight :  there  is  snow  on  the  ground  :  the  leafless  trees  fling 
their  bared  limbs  against  the  cold  blue  of  the  starlit  sky. 

The  old  Block-House  rises  dark  and  gloomy  from  the  snow,  with  the 
heavy  trees  extending  all  around. 

The  wind  sweeps  through  the  woods,  not  with  a  boisterous  roar,  but 
the  strange  sad  cadence  of  an  organ,  whose  notes  swell  away  through  the 
arches  of  a  dim  cathedral  aisle. 

Who  would  dream  that  living  beings  tenanted  this  dark  mansion, 
arising  in  one  black  mass  from  the  bed  of  snow,  its  huge  timbers  revealed 
in  various  indistinct  forms,  by  the  cold  clear  light  of  the  stars  1  Centred 
in  the  midst  of  the  desolate  woods,  it  looks  like  the  abode  of  spirits, 
or  like  some  strange  sepulchre,  in  which  the  dead  of  long-past  ages  lie 
entombed. 

There  is  no  foot-track  on  the  winding  road — the  snow  presents  one 
smooth  white  surface — yet  the  gates  are  thrown  wide  open,  as  if  ready 
for  the  coming  of  a  welcome  guest. 

Through  this  low,  narrow  door — also  flung  wide  open — along  this  dark 
corridor,  we  will  enter  the  Monastery. 

In  the  centre  of  this  room,  illumined  by  the  light  of  two  tall  white 
candles,  sits  the  old  man,  his  slender  form  clad  in  dark  velvet,  with  the 
silver  cross  gleaming  on  his  bosom,  buried  in  the  cushions  of  an  oaken 
chair. 


70  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

His  slender  hands  are  laid  upon  his  knees— he  sways  slowly  to  and  fro 
—  while  his  large  blue  eye,  dilating  with  a  wild  stare,  is  fixed  upon  the 
opposite  wall. 

Hush  !  Not  a  word — not  even  the  creaking  of  a  footstep— for  this  old 
man,  wrapped  in  his  thoughts,  sitting  alone  in  the  centre  of  this  strangely 
furnished  room,  fills  us  with  involuntary  reverence. 

Strangely  furnished  room  ?  Yes,  circular  in  form,  with  a  single  door- 
way; huge  panels  of  dafk  oaken  wainscot  rise  from  the  bared  floor  to  the 
gloomy  ceiling.  Near  the  old  man  arises  a  white  altar,  on  which  the 
candles  are  placed,  its  spotless  curtain  floating  down  to  the  floor.  Be- 
tween the  candles,  you  behold  a  long,  slender  flagon  of  silver,  a  wreath 
of  laurel  leaves,  fresh  gathered  from  the  Wissahikon  hills,  and  a  Holy 
Bible,  bound  in  velvet,  with  antique  clasps  of  gold. 

Behind  the  altar,  gloomy  and  sullen,  as  if  struggling  with  the  shadows 
of  the  room,  arises  a  cross  of  Iron. 

On  yonder  small  fire-place,  rude  logs  of  oak  and  hickory  send  up  their 
mingled  smoke  and  flame. 

The  old  man  sits  there,  his  eyes  growing  wilder  in  their  gaze  every 
moment,  fixed  upon  the  solitary  door.  Still  he  sways  to  and  fro,  and 
now  his  thin  lips  move,  and  a  faint  murmur  fills  the  room. 

"He  will  come  /"  mutters  the  Priest  of  the  Wissahikon,  as  common 
rumor  named  him.  "At  the  third  hour  after  midnight  the  Deliverer  will 
come .'" 

Yet  while  the  aged  man  in  the  Block-house,  after  weary  years  of 
thought,  awaits  the  great  end  of  his  long  vigil  of  Prayer,  we  will  follow 
the  footsteps  of  his  son,  and  witness  scenes  of  novel  and  absorbing 
interest. 

It  is  now  the  hour  of  twelve,  on  the  Last  Night  of  1774.  While  the 
guests  are  feasting  in  the  farm-house  and  dancing  the  old  year  to  his  grave, 
while  Gilbert  goes  on  his  way  of  Blood,  and  Paul  on  his  errand  of  Peace, 
the  moon  rises  higher  in  the  cloudless  sky,  and  bathes  the  winding  gorge 
— the  snowy  hills — the  wilderness  of  leafless  trees,  in  light,  at  once  sad 
and  sepulchral. 

Yonder,  on  the  summit  of  the  broad  hill,  which  rises  on  the  south  of 
Wissahikon,  we  behold  a  stone  mansion,  centred  in  a  grove  of  tall  pines, 
whose  branches  are  bent  with  the  weight  of  snow. 

Through  these  thickly-woven  pines,  the  moonlight  comes  in  uncertain 
gleams  ;  now  the  level  space  in  front  of  the  hall  door  is  alive  with  belts 
of  silvery  light,  that  move  hurriedly  over  the  frozen  snow,  and  again  a 
dense  shadow  broods  around  the  mansion. 

Its  outlines  are  wrapped  in  gloom.  Before  the  door,  a  fallen  statue  of 
some  heathen  deity  lies  half  covered  in  snow;  the  shutters  are  closed; 
the  whole  place  wears  an  aspect  of  desolation. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


71 


Yet,  from  the  circular  tower  which  rises  from  the  centre  of  the  roof,  a 
vivid  ray  flashes  far  over  the  snow,  until  it  is  lost  in  the  brightness,  yon- 
der, beyond  the  grove  of  pines. 

And  while  this  light  flashes  from  the  tower  of  the  mansion,  on  the  south- 
ern hill  of  Wissahikon,  on  the  opposite  shore,  not  more  than  five  hun 
dred  yards  away,  another  ray  gleams  from  the  leafless  trees,  and  trembles 
on  the  bosom  of  the  Wissahikon. 

Deep  sunken  between  two  high  hills,  an  old  house  stands  there,  encir- 
cled with  dreary  brushwood,  with  the  trees  gathered  thickly  around  it, 
and  the  shutters  on  its  narrow  windows  closed  like  the  portals  of  a  grave- 
vault.  Through  the  closed  shutters,  that  faint  and  wandering  ray  streams 
out  upon  the  night,  while  the  subdued  echoes  from  its  secret  chambers 
break  at  sudden  intervals  upon  the  Sabbath  stillness  of  the  air. 

First  we  will  turn  our  gaze  toward  the  grand  old  mansion,  on  the  south 
em  hills.    It  is  the  house  of  Isaac  Van  Behme,  called  Isaac  the  Wizard. 

Then  to  the  deserted  house,  sunken  in  the  sombre  hollow,  on  the  north- 
ern shore  of  Wissahikon,  where  the  closed  shutters  and  impenetrable 
walls  cannot  altogether  drown  the  sounds  which  awake  the  echoes  of  its 
gloomy  chambers. 

Strange  sounds,  gloomy  echoes  !  The  deserted  house  is  looked  upon 
with  superstitious  fear,  by  the  people  of  the  hill-side  and  forest.  It  is 
haunted  ;  ghosts  are  seen  gliding  through  the  shadows  of  its  encircling 
thickets  ;  the  Great  Fiend  himself  comes  nightly  to  visit  its  chambers. 
Years  ago,  when  it  was  a  comfortable  home,  the  country  residence  of  a 
foreigner,  who  sojourned  awhile  in  the  city,  and  spent  his  summer  hours 
beside  the  Wissahikon,  a  guest  was  murdered  by  its  very  hearthstone, 
and  buried  in  its  cellar.  So  run  the  vague  superstitions  of  the  Wissa- 
hikon folks,  in  regard  to  the  ruined  house. 

It  is  indeed  haunted,  but  by  Ghosts  or  by  living  Men,  who  appear  like 
ghosts,  and  come  and  go,  under  the  mantle  of  an  impenetrable  mystery  ? 
The  Great  Fiend,  in  truth,  does  often  visit  its  walls,  but  not  the  Satan 
whom  men  fear,  armed  with  grotesque  terrors,  formidable  with  hoof  and 
horns  and  tail. 

That  Fiend  is  the  Invisible  Head  of  a  Secret  Organization,  which  ex- 
tends from  these  woods  of  Wissahikon,  over  the  continent  of  America, 
and  only  speaks  to  hear  its  mandates  re-echoed  bv  the  thousand  Lodges 
of  the  Old  World  and  the  New. 


72 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


CHAPTER  SIXTH. 

THE  WIZARD'S  DAUGHTER. 

Before  the  mirror  stood  a  Maiden,  gazing  upon  the  reflected  beauty  of 
her  dark  eyes,  the  reflected  loveliness  of  her  half-bared  bosom  

—  These  words  may  seem  very  abrupt  and  somewhat  rude,  but  when 
you  have  taken  in  the  entire  details  of  the  picture,  you  will  agree  with 
me,  that  it  was  a  sight  altogether  interesting — perchance  beautiful.  

it  was  not  an  oval  mirror,  framed  in  a  narrow  rim  of  carved  walnut, 
and  placed  upon  an  antique  dressing-bureau.    Nor  was  it  encircled  by  a 
frame  of  showy  gilt,  with  golden  flowers  and  golden  Cupids  strown  about  | 
its  brightness. 

It  was  a  square  mirror,  framed  by  the  dark  paneling  of  the  maiden's 
chamber,  and  reaching  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor. 

Before  it,  with  the  light  shining  on  her  forehead,  and  a  robe  of  dark  velvet 
flowing  from  her  left  shoulder  over  her  form,  and  flowing  in  folds  by  no 
means  constrained  or  formal,  stood  a  girl  of  eighteen  years,  whose  eyes, 
and  brows,  and  hair  were  all  intensely  black. 

Her  complexion  was  brown,  but  a  clear,  rich  brown,  more  beautiful  to 
look  upon  than  the  fairest  blonde.  For  in  the  centre  of  each  swelling 
cheek,  and  on  her  lips,  through  whose  intervals  her  white  teeth  were  seen, 
that  brown  complexion  bloomed  into  the  rosiest  red. 

The  eyes  were  dark  and  very  bright,  but  the  half-closed  lids  and  the 
long  lashes  veiled  their  brightness,  and  subdued  it  into  a  dreamy  languor. 

Her  hair  was  turned  aside  from  her  forehead,  and  bound  at  the  back  of 
her  head,  in  a  mass  of  glossy  blackness.  But  part  of  it,  not  so  much  a 
tress,  as  two  or  three  tresses  linked  together,  escaping  from  the  cincture, 
floated  down  her  cheek,  and  made  her  bared  shoulder  look  more  white 
and  beautiful,  as  it  trembled  over  its  faultless  outlines. 

In  her  left  hand  she  held  the  lamp,  while,  with  her  right  arm  bent, 
she  clasped  the  mantle  to  her  bosom,  that  mantle,  whose  loose-flowing 
folds  marked  the  outlines  of  her  shape,  and  left  her  naked  feet  bare  to 
the  light. 

The  light  streamed  warmly  over  her  face,  tinted  her  dark  hair,  and 
showed  a  gleam  of  the  white  bosom,  heaving  beneath  the  golden  fringe 
of  the  black  mantle. 

That  face  is  full  of  character.  It  speaks  the  soul.  The  languid  eye- 
lids, and  the  parted  lips  ;  the  cheek  glowing  into  crimson,  and  the  eye 

veiled  in  a  dewy  moisture  all  speak  of  a  warm,  nay,  a  passionate 

organization. 

But  the  white  forehead,  rendered  more  distinct  in  eVery  outline  by  the 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  73 

black  hair,  tossed  aside  in  glossy  masses,  tells  of  an  intellectual — per- 
chance an  ambitious  organization.  .  » 

Nor  does  the  form,  whose  outlines  are  betrayed  by  the  loosely  flowing 
folds  of  velvet,  lack  expression,  at  once  decided  and  bewitching. 

The  bared  left  arm  glows  softly  in  the  light,  with  its  clear  skin  and 
round  outlines,  and  tapers  into  the  white  hand,  whose  palm  is  velvety 
whose  fingers  seem  like  transparent  marble,  warmed  by  a  rosy  radiance. 

The  bust  is  round,  full,  like  a  flower,  that  only  demands  another  mo 
ment,  to  ripen  it  into  perfect  bloom.  The  waist  is  slender,  but  by  no 
means  like  the  waist  of  a  fashion-plate  or  a  wasp.  The  small  feet,  re- 
lieved by  the  dark  matting  on  which  they  rest,  harmonize  with  the  hands, 
and  indicate,  by  their  delicacy  of  outline,  the  voluptuous  fulness  of  the 
maiden's  form. 

And  in  the  mirror,  framed  in  the  dark  paneling,  and  reaching  from  the 
ceiling  to  the  floor,  she  beholds  that  form,  and  gazes  in  dreamy  languor 
•  upon  the  warm  loveliness  of  her  face. 

The  room,  in  which  she  stands,  may  claim  our  passing  glance.  It  is 
square,  paneled  with  dark  wood,  with  a  door  in  the  south,  a  recess  on  the 
north,  a  window  looking  to  the  east,  over  a  waste  of  frozen  snow,  just 
silvered  by  the  rising  moon. 

The  dark  wood  is  carved  with  the  faces  of  nymphs,  fauns,  satyrs, 
cupids  and  devils,  with  here  and  there  a  mask,  or  a  cluster  of  flowers,  or 
a  garland  of  leaves. 

The  recess  is  veiled  from  our  sight  by  curtains  of  purple  tapestry,  that 
look  black  in  the  candle-light,  and  fall  with  their  golden  fringe  upon  the 
floor. 

The  floor  is  polished,  until  it  resembles  a  mirror ;  the  dark  matting 
on  which  the  maiden  stands,  an  ^antique  dressing-bureau,  and  two  chairs, 
cumbrous  with  carvings  and  embroidery,  alone  break  the  uniformity  of  its 
glittering  surface. 

The  curtains  of  snowy  whiteness,  which  sometimes  veil  the  window, 
are  now  drawn  aside,  and  the  moonlight  comes  through  the  narrow 
panes,  and  shines  in  a  line  of  light  along  the  floor. 

Altogether,  it  is  a  beautiful  picture ;  this  room,  paneled  with  dark 
wood,  with  a  beautiful  girl  standing  in  its  centre,  the  light  shining  above  her 
head,  revealing  another  maiden,  as  lovely  as  herself,  smiling  upon  her 
from  the  mirror,  into  whose  brightness  she  is  gazing. 

And  as  she  stands  there,  surveying  with  voluptuous  languor  the  image 
of  her  own  loveliness,  reflected  in  the  mirror,  the  dead  silence  is  broken 
by  a  sudden,  sharp  sound. 

The  mirror  moves — it  trembles  like  a  smooth  lake  into  which  a  pebble 
is  thrown — it  passes  slowly  aside,  and  disappears  within  the  panel.  A 
deep  recess  is  visible,  where,  but  a  moment  since,  the  mirror  6hone. 

The  maiden  trembles,  she  utters  a  sudden  cry  of  terror,  and  sinks  on 


74  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

lfcr  knees,  the  robe  still  clasped  to  her  bosorn,  her  unbound  hair  wav- 
ing over  her  shoulders. 

Her  cheek  becomes  as  pale  as  death.  No  longer  veiled  in  languid 
moisture,  no  longer  hidden  under  the  downcast  lid,  her  eye  dilates — 
flashes  with  terror. 

There  is  a  form  in  the  recess— is  it  but  an  Apparition  roused  from  the 
shadows  of  the  Other  World,  or  the  form  of  a  human  being  1 

The  maiden  raises  her  eyes — for  a  moment  the  deathly  paleness  of  her 
face  struggles  with  a  rosy  bloom— and  then,  blushing  over  her  cheek,  her 
neck  and  her  bosom,  which  pants  suddenly  into  light,  that  flush  fires  her 
face  with  a  warm,  voluptuous  beauty. 

With  a  gesture  of  involuntary  joy,  she  raises  her  arms,  and  casts  her 
fallen  tresses  aside  from  her  white  shoulder — 

"The  Monk  of  Wissahikon  !" 

And  once  more,  over  the  cheek,  and  brow,  and  bosom,  she  blushes 
like  a  new-born  summer  morning. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTH. 

THE  PHIAL  OF  ETERNAL  YOUTH. 

At  the  same  moment,  in  another  apartment  of  the  Wizard's  mansion, 
a  far  different  scene  was  in  progress. 

Let  us  leave  the  chamber  of  the  maiden,  and  pass  along  the  corridor, 
lighted  by  a  hanging  lamp,  which  reveals  the  wide  stairway,  descending 
to  the  ground  floor  of  the  mansion,  and  also  shines  upon  the  narrow  door, 
whose  panels  break  the  uniformity  of  the  oaken  wainscot.  That  narrow 
door  conceals  the  confined  staircase  leading  upward  into  the  tower,  on 
the  summit  of  the  mansion. 

The  lamp,  or  rather  lantern,  hangs  from  the  ceiling,  right  above  the 
wide  stairway,  and  throws  but  a  faint  light  over  its  windings  while  it 
glows  brightly  on  the  narrow  door. 

A  step  is  heard,  like  the  subdued  and  stealthy  tread  of  an  armed  man, 
and  presently  we  discern  a  figure  in  the  darkness  of  the  stairway — it 
slowly  ascends — and  in  a  moment,  the  light  discloses  the  face  of  Gilbert 
Morgan,  shadowed  by  a  look  of  sullen  ferocity. 

He  leans  against  the  railings  of  the  stairway,  and  bends  his  head  to 
one  side,  in  the  attitude  of  one  who  listens  intently  for  the  faintest  sound 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  75 

One  foot  on  the  stairway,  and  one  on  the  corridor,  his  right  arm  rests  on 
the  mahogany  railing,  while  his  left  hand,  dropped  at  his  side,  grasps  the 
unsheathed  hunting-knife. 

And  as  he  listens,  the  light  discloses  that  almost  gigantic  form,  enve- 
loped in  the  blue  hunting-shirt,  which,  leaving  the  throat  bare,  falls  to  the 
knees,  edged  with  white  fur,  while  the  brown  face— thrown  into  bold 
relief  by  the  darkness  of  the  stairway— works  in  every  nerve,  as  with 
the  impulse  of  plunder  and  carnage. 

He  listens — lips  compressed,  eyes  shadowed  by  the  down-drawn  brows 
— but  all  is  still. 

One  step,  stealthy  as  a  panther's  tread,  toward  the  door  of  the  maid- 
en's chamber.  His  bent  head  touches  the  dark  panels  ;  all  silent,  not 
a  sound  meets  his  ear.  Then,  underneath  the  swinging  lantern  he 
stands  again,  and  his  face  is  covered  by  a  dark  mask,  which,  tied  around 
the  forehead,  reaches  to  the  mouth,  and  leaves  only  the  lower  part  of  the 
visage  exposed  to  the  light.  With  the  knife  in  his  right  hand,  he  ap- 
proaches the  narrow  door,  lifts  the  latch,  and  places  his  foot  upon  the 
first  step  of  the  dark  staircase. 

The  sound  of  voices,  rendered  faint  by  distance,  breaks  indistinctly  on 
his  ears.  Without  a  word  he  enters  the  door,  and  in  the  darkness  as- 
cends the  stairway.  The  walls  touch  his  shoulders  on  either  side ;  the 
ceiling  is  so  low,  that  he  is  foreed  to  bend  his  head  upon  his  breast,  as 
he  ascends. 

Those  words  become  more  distinct,  and  after  twenty  steps  are  passed, 
a  ray  of  light  streams  through  the  intervals  of  a  curtain,  and  glimmers 
out  upon  the  blackness  of  the  stairway. 

That  curtain  supplies  the  place  of  a  door,  and  separates  the  haunt  of 
the  Wizard  from  the  staircase. 

Gilbert  is  on  the  topmost  step  ;  knife  in  hand  he  approaches  the  cur- 
tain. As  the  ray  flashes  over  his  masked  face,  he  stealthily  advances, 
and  looks  within. 

"  It  is  the  appointed  time  !" 

The  rude  hunter,  bent  on  a  deed  of  violence,  swayed  by  invisible 
hands  to  an  act  of  midnight  plunder,  felt  a  superstitious  thrill  pervade 
his  veins,  at  the  sound  of  that  voice. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  the  scene  which  he  beheld,  might  have 
chilled  with  awe  a  stouter  heart,  a  bolder  brain  than  his. 

A  small  lamp,  glittering  like  polished  silver,  hung  by  a  chain  from  the 
dome-like  ceiling,  and  cast  a  pure  and  spiritual  light  over  the  place. 

It  was  a  circular  room,  not  more  than  twenty  feet  in  diameter.  The 
walls  were  hung  with  parchments,  inscribed  with  Hebrew  and  Arabic 
characters.  A  recess*  was  filled  with  massive  volumes,  whose  dusty 
covers,  and  silver  clasps,  bore  the  traces  of  a  venerable  age.  On  one 
side,  hung  a  skeleton,  the  white  skull  and  hollow  orbits  glaring  in  the 


\ 


76  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

clear  light.  Not  far  removed,  a  shapeless  mass,  enveloped  in  a  brown 
cloth,  tattered  with  age,  and  covered  with  dust,  stood  erect  against  the 
wall.  That  shapeless  mass  was  once  a  living  soul ;  a  thousand  years 
ago,  it  'trod  the  soil  of  the  New  World,  perchance  a  warrior  armed  for 
battle,  or  it  may  be,  a  Priest  of  some  forgotten  creed,  with  the  knife  of 
sacrifice  in  his  hand.  It  is  an  Indian  Mummy,  exhumed  from  a  mound 
on  the  far  western  prairies. 

It  was  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  whose  walls  were  crowded  with 
strange  and  contrasted  details,  that  a  picture  of  some  interest  was  dis- 
closed by  the  rays  of  the  hanging  lamp. 

An  old  man  bent  over  a  corse,  a  knife  in  his  hand,  while  his  blue  eyes 
shone  from  his  withered  face  with  a  wild  unearthly  light.  He  was  clad 
in  a  black  gown,  whose  loose  folds  concealed  the  outlines  of  his 
shrunken  limbs. 

The  corse,  extended  on  a  board  which  rested  on  tressels,  was  half-con- 
cealed by  a  white  cloth,  which  swept  in  careless  folds  from  the  waist  to 
the  feet.  But  the  broad  chest,  the  sinewy  throat,  the  dark-red  visage, 
were  bare  ;  the  face,  wrinkled  by  age,  wore,  even  in  death,  a  look  of  iron 
defiance. 

It  was  the  dead  body  of  the  Chief,  Yoconok. 

Opposite  the  old  man,  crouching  on  the  floor,  the  figure  of  the  deformed 
man,  known  as  Black  David,  was  visible.  Resting  his  cheek  upon  his 
hand,  he  gazed  upon  him  steadily,  his  eyes  almost  hidden  by  the  thick 
meshes  of  his  long  hair.  With  that  pale  face,  encircled  by  the  dark 
beard  and  hair,  quivering  with  half-suppressed  laughter,  Black  David 
looked  like  some  Demon,  summoned  by  the  craft  of  the  Wizard  to  aid  in 
his  unholy  task. 

"  It  is  the  appointed  time.  I  am  about  to  behold  the  great  result  of  the 
ceaseless  toil  of  twenty-one  years.  For  twenty-one  years,  by  night  and 
day,  in  the  cell  beneath  this  house,  I  have  watched  for  the  moment 
when  the  liquid  of  immortal  life  should  greet  my  eyes.  The  liquid  is  in 
my  hand  ;  this  phial  contains  those  priceless  drops,  every  one  of  which 
is  worth  an  hundred  years  of  life.  But  thou  canst  not  comprehend  me, 
David — nature,  in  giving  thee  a  body  hideously  deformed,  has  not  sup- 
plied the  lack  of  manly  beauty  with  the  gift  6f  an  intelligent  soul.  Thou 
canst  but  aid  me  with  thy  brute  strength.  Rise,  David.  Watch  the  hour- 
glass on  yonder  shelf.  When  its  sands  are  run,  the  dead  will  rise — this 
cold  image  of  clay  become  a  young  and  vigorous  man  !" 

Black  David  rose,  and,  gliding  to  the  recess,  glanced  upon  the  hour- 
glass. Its  sands  were  well  nigh  run.  Then,  sinking  upon  the  floor 
again,  he  placed  his  face  within  his  hands,  and  observed  the  old  man, 
with  an  unvarying  gaze. 

It  was  wonderful  to  mark  the  energy  which  lighted  up  that  withered 
face,  and  shone  without  ceasing,  in  the  clear  blue  eyes.    It  was  the 


t 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  77 

energy  of  a  mistaken  but  sincere  enthusiasm,  the  resolution  of  a  Fanati- 
cism nursed  into  unnatural  vigor  by  the  delusions  of  a  long  life. 

"  He  shall  rise  !  Young  and  beautiful,  I  will  make  of  his  beauty  and 
his  youth,  the  unfailing  instruments  of  my  will.  When  I  have  raised  the 
dead,  changed  death  into  life,  then  will  the  rest  of  my  great  task  become 
plain  and  palpable.  First,  the  dead  must  be  raised,  then  baser  metals  may 
be  transmuted  into  gold.  So  read  the  lessons  of  the  sages,  so  speak 
they  all,  from  Apollonius  of  Tryana  down  to  Paracelsus  and  Agrippa  !" 

Gold  ?  Ho — ho  !  What  will  you  do  with  gold — "  sneered  Black 
David,  as  he  looked  steadily  into  the  old  man's  face.  "  Why,  Master, 
you've  one  foot  in  the  grave  already,  and  'tother  is  slippin'  arter  it.  Eh 
— o-o-h  !    I  see — you  want  it  for  your  coffin  !" 

"  Poor  wretch  !"  muttered  Isaac  in  a  tone  of  deep  pity — "  He  speaks 
the  language  of  the  world.  But  I  will  use  him  as  an  instrument  in  my 
great  design.  When  I  am  dead,  he  will  apply  the  liquid  to  my  cold  lips, 
and  the  old  man,  withered  by  the  toil  of  a  long  life — the  limbs  shrunken, 
the  face  wrinkled,  the  heart  chilled — shall  start  into  being,  with  hope  in 
his  veins,  and  young  manhood  sparkling  in  his  eyes  !" 

Black  David  drew  near  the  corse,  while  Isaac  was  speaking  ;  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  frowning  brow  of  the  dead  man. 

"  Dost  say  'un  will  come  to  life  again?"  he  said,  with  an  idiotic  smile 
and  vacant  stare.  "  No  !  It  ain't  possible,  Master  Behme  !  He  be  stone 
dead — see  !" 

Gilbert,  from  his  place  of  concealment,  beheld  the  Deformed  lift  the 
naked  arm  of  the  Indian — sway  it  carelessly  to  and  fro — and  then  dash  it 
with  some  violence  upon  his  broad  chest. 

The  hunter  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  not  so  much  with  fear  of  the 
Wizard,  as  with  a  sensation  of  creeping  awe,  which  chilled  his  veins, 
whenever  he  saw  the  cold  gleam  of  the  hunchback's  eyes. 

But,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  he  placed  the  knife  in  his  belt  again, 
and  in  the  darkness,  felt  the  lock  of  his  pistol. 

"  That  ar'  cripple's  a  born  devil ;  but  as  for  Isaac,  I'll  see  what  he's 
made  of!"  he  muttered — "He  must'nt  cut  any  of  his  shines  over  the 
Ingin's  dead  carcase,  while  I'm  about !" 

"  Do  not  touch  the  dead—"  said  Isaac  with  an  energetic  gesture — 

Back  from  the  corse,  I  say,  and  watch  while  I  make  the  last  experi- 
ment. The  time  will  come,  David,  when  you  will  have  to  do  a  deed  like 
this — mark  me,  therefore,  so  that  you  may  call  your  Master  back  to  life, 
when  he  is  dead," 

He  bent  over  the  corse,  holding  in  one  hand  the  scalpel,  or  dissecting- 
knife,  while  in  the  other  he  grasped  a  small  glass  phial. 

Black  David  approached,  and  watched  him  with  great  earnestness,  his 
face  lengthening  with  an  expression  of  vacant  wonder,  most  ludicrous  to 
behold. 


78 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


"  Y-a-a-s,  Master—"  he  drawled — "  I  sees  !" 

"  The  born  devil  !"  muttered  Gilbert,  behind  the  curtain — "  I'll  be 
bound  he  plays  old  Isaac  some  cursed  trick  before  he's  many  minutes 
older.  Jist  look  at  his  face — as  simple  as  a  school-boy  arter  a  good 
lickin' — and  yet  the  very  Devil's  in  them  eyes  !" 

"  When  the  moment  is  come,  David,  I  will  describe  a  Cross — thus — 
with  the  point  of  the  knife,  on  the  breast  of  the  dead  man.  Pronouncing 
the  awful  name  of  God — which  the  High  Priest  of  the  Jews  uttered  but 
once  a  year,  and  that  in  the  Holy  of  Holies — pronouncing  the  name 
which  has  been  lost  to  the  mass  of  mankind  for  thousands  of  years,  I 
will  pour  a  drop  of  this  liquid  into  the  wound,  made  by  the  knife.  Yet, 
mark  ye,  it  must  be  poured  into  the  very  centre  of  the  Cross,  else  is  the 
charm  in  vain,  and  the  elixir  without  power." 

"Then,  Master—"  mumbled  Black  David,  twisting  his  fingers  in  the 
meshes  of  his  hair. 

"  Even  as  prussic  acid,  applied  to  the  lips,  kills  at  once — kills  ere  the 
hand  that  applied  it  falls  to  the  side — so  will  this  liquid,  poured  on  the 
Cross,  which  is  cut  into  the  flesh  with  the  knife,  bring  the  dead  to  life, 
ere  a  second  is  gone. — In  a  few  moments,  David,  you  will  see  it  done  !" 

The  old  man  siood  contemplating  the  slender  phial,  which  was  tilled 
with  a  colorless  and  transparent  liquid.  A  look  of  strange  sadness  came 
over  his  face,  as  he  muttered  an  incoherent  soliloquy  : 

"  I  was  young  ;  my  step  firm,  my  eye  bright ;  youth  in  my  veins,  hope 
in  my  eye.  I  loved;  there  was  a  wife,  a  child  in  my  home.  A  gorgeous 
home  amid  the  hills  of  Yorkshire,  where  the  proud  and  beautiful  came 
thronging,  to  pay  their  homage  to  the — wealthy  commoner.  Isaac  Van 
Behme  ^s  then  the  owner  of  millions.  Ah,  I  was  afraid  that  I  might 
die — bei^athered  to  a  cold  vault,  and  leave  my  wealth  to  others.  Then  a 
yearning  desire  sprung  up  within  me,  and  changed  my  nature.  I  was, 
indeed,  born  again.  To  live  forever  on  the  earth — to  fear  no  decay — to 
create  gold  at  will,  from  the  baser  metals — to  be  immortal  at  once,  in  the 
power  of  youth  and  in  gold  !  My  wife  died — I  cared  not.  That  one  de- 
sire became  the  great  passion  of  my  being.  I  interrogated  the  Past — I 
wrung  knowledge  from  the  writings  of  the  ancient  seers — I  grappled  with 
Death  itself,  and  besought  the  answer  to  my  question,  '  In  what  part  of 
the  human  frame  does  the  Principle  of  Life  make  its  dwelling  ?' 

"Nay— I  tracked  the  dark  avenues  of  the  gold  mine,  and  sought  day 
after  day,  year  after  year,  to  look  upon  the  Great  Laboratory  of  Nature, 
and  learn  the  process,  by  which  she  turns  base  lead  and  copper  into 
gold.  The  end  of  my  toil  is  near.  The  old  man,  hidden  in  this  lonely 
valley,  shall  soon  go  forth  again  into  the  great  world ;  he  shall  become 
once  more  the  comrade  of  Kings  ;  his  child  may  perchance  feel  the  weight 
of  a  crown  upon  her  brows  !" 

With  his  large  blue  eye  fixed  upon  the  slender  phial,  he  paced  along 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


79 


the  floor,  the  gown  floating  loosely  around  his  shrunken  limbs,  while  the 
clear  rays  of  the  lamp  shone  warmly  upon  his  venerable  hair. 

As  he  paced  along,  absorbed  in  his  wild  fanaticism,  Black  David, 
crouching  near  the  corse  with  his  face  resting  between  his  hands,  looked 
up,  from  beneath  his  bushy  eyebrows,  laughing  all  over  his  colorless  face, 
as  he  muttered  

"  Fool !  Would  he  might  gain  his  wish,  and  know  at  once,  that  hell 
has  no  curse  so  horrible,  as  the  blessing  he  desires — eternal  life  on  earth, 
gold  without  end." 

Gilbert  felt  a  strange  pity  melt  his  rude  heart,  as  he  gazed  upon 
the  old  man's  face.  There  was  an  overwhelming  desire,  written  on 
every  withered  line  ;  as  the  eyes  shone  in  deep  clear  light,  and  the  lips  grew 
tremulous,  the  hunter  heard  him  whisper  without  ceasing  these  words — 

«  Youth-Gold  !    Gold- Youth  !    Youth— Gold  !" 
And  so  the  withered  Fanatic  paced  the  floor  of  the  strange  room, 
grasping,  in  those  two  words,  the  great  desire  of  the  whole  world  of 
mankind,  while,  crouching  like  an  embodied  scorn,  near  his  feet,  Black 
David  muttered  his  answering  echo  : 

"  Death  !  Sleep  !  Sleep — death  !  To  die  and  to  forget !"  and  over 
his  sneering  face  there  came  an  expression  of  unutterable  anguish.  "  To- 
day— "  he  murmured,  as  Isaac  paced  the  floor,  unconscious  of  his  pre- 
♦  sence — "  To-day,  in  these  woods,  I  saw  a  child  lie  dead  upon  its  Mo- 
ther's knee.  I  would  give  all  the  gold  in  the  universe,  all  the  life  in 
eternity,  to  be  that  child  !" 

The  face  of  the  Deformed  expressed  the  very  intensity  of  despair. 

"  The  time  draws  near.  In  a  moment  it  will  be  here.  David,  rise — 
take  the  dead  man  by  the  arms.  It  will  need  all  your  strength  to  re- 
strain him,  in  the  dread  moment  when  he  uncloses  his  eyes,  and  feels 
that  he  lives  again." 

Black  David,  standing  at  the  head  of  the  corse,  grasped  its  bony  arms 
by  the  wrists,  and  with  head  bent,  and  the  tangled  hair  falling  over  his 
face,  seemed  to  await  the  commands  of  the  enthusiast. 

"  How  dost  know  'un  will  rise  ?"  he  muttered  suddenly. 

"  Have  I  not  read  it  in  their  works — the  venerable  Seers  of  the  Ages  ?" 
exclaimed  Isaac,  pointing  with  a  tremulous  hand  toward  the  recess — 
"  Yea — the  Dead  have  come  to  me,  and  spoken  of  the  Great  Secret,  with 
their  livid  lips." 

He  paused,  and  stood  motionless  beside  the  corse,  while  a  tremor 
shook  his  frame. 

"Yes— He  has  appeared  to  me,  he,  most  sad  and  yet  terrible  of  all 
the  Fallen  Angels  !    His  pale  forehead,  seared  with  the  mark  of  eternal 

anguish,  his  hair  streaming  in  waves  of  lurid  light,  1  see  him  now — 

again  I  hear  his  voice.  '  In  the  first  moments  of  the  new-born  year,  the 
dead  will  come  to  lifer  " 


80  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

Why  did  Black  David's  distorted  frame  quiver  like  a  withered  reed 
in  the  winter  wind  ?  We  cannot  read  the  expression  of  his  face,  for 
his  head  is  drooped ;  the  matted  hair  falls  around  it  like  a  lion's  mane. 

"  How  much  money  hast  spent,  Master  ?  Twenty-one  years — a  long 
time — a  very,  very  long  time.  It  has  swallowed  a  world  of  gold — eh  ? 
Master  ?" 

"  Have  you  not  watched  the  Sacred  Fire,  burning  for  ever,  in  the  cell 
beneath  the  house  ?  You  have  seen  me  pour  the  gold  in  the  alembic, 
with  an  unsparing  hand — " 

«*  Y-e-s  !  Handfuls  on  it  at  a  time.  It  looks  beautiful  like,  and  clinks 
so  pleasant  like  the  round  gold,  the  yellow  gold,  the  sunshiny  gold  !" 

"When  I  began  this  search  I  was  worth  millions !  Now  the  last 
wreck  of  my  wealth — you  know  it  well,  honest  David — is  concealed  in 
the  small  chest,  which  lies  beyond  yonder  curtain,  in  the  darkness,  at  the 
head  of  the  stairway.  It  is  only  a  thousand  doubloons — only  a  thou- 
sand." 

Black  David  raised  his  face,  and  looked  toward  the  curtain.  Gilbert 
felt  the  glance  of  his  eyes  resting  upon  him,  and,  with  a  fear  that  he 
could  not  master,  saw  the  half-suppressed  laughter  of  that  mocking  face. 

"  At  the  head  o'  the  stairs  !  It's  well,  master,  that  no  bad  men  know 
it,  for — they  might  even  rob  you  of  your  gold.'''' 

The  old  man  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  last  words,  but  they  thrilled  an 
Gilbert's  ear,  as  his  extended  foot  rested  upon  the  oaken  chest,  in  which 
the  doubloons  were  concealed. 

"  The  sands  are  run  !" — Isaac's  voice,  quivering  with  enthusiasm, 
clear  and  ringing  in  its  emphasis,  broke  on  the  ears  of  the  listening 
hunter. 

"  Behold  !    Thus' I  describe  the  cross  upon  the  dead  man's  heart !" 
With  the  point  of  the  knife,  he  laid  open  the  flesh  on  the  chest  of  the 
corse  ;  the  wound  was  in  the  form  of  a  cross.    A  single  drop  of  blood 
started  from  the  point  where  the  transverse  gashes  met. 

The  old  man  raised  the  phial ;  it  glittered  above  his  head,  in  the  clear 
rays  of  the  hanging  lamp.  A  wild  joy  quivered  over  his  face,  agitating 
every  feature,  and  shining  brightly  in  his  clear  blue  eyes. 

"  It  is  the  time.  The  labors  of  a  life  are  about  to  be  repaid.  Thus, 
thus,  O  Masters  of  the  Divine  Art,  I  follow  your  teachings — thus,  O 
darkest  and  most  powerful  of  all  the  Fallen  Host,  I  obey  your  com- 
mands !" 

His  right  arm  shook  with  an  unceasing  tremor,  as  he  held  the  phial 
in  the  light,  high  over  his  grey  hairs. 

The  corse  lay  stiff  and  cold  before  him,  with  the  figure  of  the  De- 
formed, bending  like  an  Apparition  over  its  face ;  the  gash  in  the  form 
of  a  cross,  glowed  vividly  in  the  light,  with  the  solitary  drop  glittering 
like  a  blood-red  tear. 


t 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


81 


"  With  this  liquid — only  a  single  drop,  poured  on  the  blood-drop  in 
the  centre  of  the  cross — I  call  the  Dead  to  Life  V 

He  pronounced  a  Hebrew  word  ;  it  was  that  name  which  we  call 
Jehovah. 

Bending  over  the  dead,  he  raised  the  phial  in  the  light,  and  gazed  in- 
tently upon  its  transparent  liquid,  his  narrow  chest  swelling*  with  a  joy 
too  deep  for  words. 

«  Thus  " 

A.  sharp  report  was  heard.  It  crashed  on  the  silence,  like  thunder 
from  a  serene  sky.  Through  the  curtain  folds,  which  guarded  the  en- 
trance to  the  place,  a  volume  of  blue  smoke  floated,  like  a  veil  of  trans- 
parent gauze. 

The  hand  of  the  Wizard  was  still  upraised,  but  his  eye  glared  with 
all  the  despair  of  a  soul  forever  lost. 

For  the  hand  was  empty.  The  phial  was  gone.  Fragments  of  shat- 
tered glass  strewed  the  floor. 

"  The  Monk  of  Wissahikon  !" 

While  that  blush — reddening  over  cheek  and  bosom  and  brow — glowed 
like  the  first  pure  glimpse  of  a  new-born  summer  day,  the  Maiden  raised 
her  dark  eyes,  and  gazed  upon  the  form  which  occupied  the  recess, 
where  the  mirror  had  glistened  only  a  moment  before. 

The  silver  cross  glittering  on  his  dark  dress,  he  stood  there,  like  some 
sad  and  beautiful  image  of  Memory,  the  brown  hair  falling  aside  from 
his  olive  cheek,  as,  with  head  slightly  bent,  he  turned  the  light  of  his  full 
eyes  upon  the  maiden's  glowing  face. 

"I  come  to  save  you— your  father's  life  is  in  danger"  — the  words 
rose  to  his  lips,  but  he  could  not  speak  them. 

He  could  only  gaze  upon  that  beautiful  face,  and  feel  the  light  of  those 
brilliant  eyes  shining  into  his  own. 

He  heard  the  low  musical  voice,  but  could  not  distinguish  the  words 
which  it  spoke.    Only  its  music  melted  on  his  ear. 

For  the  first  time,  the  delirium  of  passion  seized  his  soul ;  the  intoxi- 
cation of  voluptuous  madness  burned  in  his  veins. 

He  could  not  advance,  he  could  not  recede ;  absorbed  in  the  .loveliness 
which  blushed  before  him,  he  stood  in  the  recess,  with  his  gaze  centred 
upon  the  face  of  the  young  girl. 

And  she,  with  her  arms  half-raised,  her  loose  robe  trembling  on  her 
form,  as  though  about  to  fall,  could  only  return  his  gaze,  and  feel  the  fire 
of  his  eyes  flashing  into  her  soul. 

The  light  which  swung  from  the  ceiling,  tinting  the  dim  old  tapestry  with 
mild  radiance,  shone  clearly  over  the  dark  robe  of  the  maiden,  glowed 
upon  the  waves  of  her  black  hair,  and  revealed  the  figure  of  the  young 
man,  framed  in  the  recess,  and  thrown  into  view  by  the  darkness  beyond. 

6 


82 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


At  last  he  advanced — his  senses  whirling  in  an  indescribable  intoxica- 
tion— he  stepped  from  the  recess,  and  his  face,  glowing  through  its  olive 
hues,  with  the  red  blush  of  passion,  appeared  distinctly  in  the  light,  with 
the  brown  hair  tossed  aside  from  the  forehead. 

And  with  that  step — he  paused — looked  upon  her — and  extended  his 
arms  like  a  man  who  shrinks  back  from  the  verge  of  a  dizzy  cliff. 

With  the  loose  robe  waving  around  her  form,  she  sank  on  her  knees, 
clasped  her  hands,  and  while  her  lustrous  eyes  shone  their  passion  into 
his  face,  she  exclaimed  in  that  voice,  which  melted  in  strange  melody 
upon  his  ears — 

"  You  have  come  !" 
Paul  started  at  the  sight.    He  was  entangled  in  some  bewildering 

dream.    He  could  not  believe  that  it  was  a  reality  that  beautiful  girl, 

kneeling  at  his  feet,  tossing  her  hair  back  from  her  shoulders,  raising  to 
his  gaze  her  voluptuous  face,  and  whispering — like  a  Bride  who  wel- 
comes her  Lover — "  You  have  come  !" 

He  tottered  to  a  chair,  and  hid  his  burning  forehead  in  his  clasped 
hands.  There  was  fire  in  his  veins.  His  brain  seemed  to  throb  with 
the  intensity  of  a  new  existence.  His  ears  were  filled  with  a  lulling 
murmur,  as  though  the  voices  of  Angels  had  mingled  with  the  echo  of  a 
distant  waterfall. 

«  Paul !" 

He  heard  the  voice,  but  dared  not  raise  his  head.  And  then  a  hand 
trembled  among  the  locks  of  his  hair  ;  he  felt  the  pressure  of  soft,  warm 
fingers  upon  his  forehead. 

He  raised  his  eyes.  She  was  there,  kneeling  by  his  side,  her  hair 
floating  over  her  robe,  her  face  upturned,  one  arm  resting  upon  his  shoul- 
der, that  soft,  warm  hand  pressed  against  his  brow. 

And  again,  raising  her  lustrous  eyes,  she  murmured  his  name  

"  Paid!" 

There  was  some  strange  mystery  in  this  scene.  It  confused,  it  be- 
wildered him.  This  young  girl,— whose  cheek  flushed  with  passion 
through  the  intervals  of  her  dark  hair,  whose  large  eyes  grew  dim  with 
moisture  beneath  the  fringed  lids,— kneeling  by  his  side,  looking  into 
his  face,  winding  her  arm  about  his  neck,  her  fingers  trembling  among  the 
brown  locks  about  his  forehead  it  fired  his  veins  with  new  madness. 

"  You  know  my  name  ?"  he  wildly  gasped. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  "  the  Voice  whispered  it  to  me."    And  with 
that  look  of  boundless  passion,  she  panted  at  his  side. 
"  The  Voice  !" 

it  Yes — the  Voice  that  speaks  to  me  in  my  dreams.  I  hear  it  some- 
times by  day,  after  I  have  prayed  to  God— sometimes  by  night,  when 
all  is  still.  It  told  me  of  your  coming— it  spoke  of  your  Love — it  bade 
me  look  for  you  To-Night !" 


THET  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  83 

These  words,  uttered  with  a  child-like  faith,  and  yet  with  the  tremu- 
lous accent  of  passion,  completed  the  bewilderment  of  Paul  Ardenheim. 

"  Do  I  dream  ?"  he  exclaimed — and  his  hand  touched  the  forehead  of 
the  young  girl — "  You  that  are  so  beautiful — you,  whose  dark  eyes  fill 
my  soul  with  light — you,  that  speak  to  me  in  tones  that  madden — you, 
whose  very  touch  thrills  me  with  a  mad  delight !  You  speak  my  name, 
you  tell  me  that  you  looked  for  my  coming !  Oh,  it  is  some  dangerous 
dream — it  is  the  work  of  an  Evil  Angel,  who  would  peril  my  soul !" 
And,  darting  from  the  chair,  he  fled  affrighted  from  that  beautiful  girl. 
As  he  stands  by  the  window,  gazing  out. into  the  wintry  night— the 
waste  of  snow,  silvered  by  the  rising  moon,  sparkles  before  him — the 
young  girl,  kneeling  where  he  left  her,  covers  with  her  hands  that  face, 
now  crimsoned  with  blushes  and  wet  with  tears. 

How  shall  we  explain  the  mystery  of  this  scene  ?  ^ 
The  young  girl  has  been  reared  from  childhood  in  this  isolated  man- 
sion, her  friend,  her  instructor,  her  only  companion,  that  old  man, 
whose  mind  is  bewildered  by  the  Fanaticism  of  a  Past  Age.  She  has 
been  exposed  to  no  temptation  ;  never  mingled  in  the  loves  and  hatreds 
of  the  great  world.  Like  a  wild  flower,  blushing  into  life  on  the  crum- 
bling wall  of  some  old  ruin,  she  has  blossomed,  she  has  bloomed  in  soli- 
tary loveliness. 

Yet  wherefore  this  madness  of  passion,  this  child-like  tenderness, 
this  impetuous  love,  with  which  she  welcomes  an  unknown  man,  whom 
she  beholds  for  the  first  time  ! 

We  may  not  pierce  the  Mystery  now,  nor  unravel  a  single  thread  of 
the  strange  secret,  and  yet,  as  we  gaze  upon  the  scene,  its  peculiar  beauty 
strikes  our  hearts. 

Here  we  have  a  woman,  blooming  into  the  ripeness  of  her  loveliness, 
and  a  man,  whose  eye  indicates  a  strong  intellect,  while  his  form  mani- 
fests the  grace  and  vigor  of  y^oung  manhood. 

Reared  alike  in  these  silent  woods — afar  from  the  world— their  souls 
formed  amid  scenes  of  the  same  character — this  young  man,  with  the 
bronzed  face  and  eyes  of  strange  power,  this  young  girl,  so  blooming  with 
every  hue  of  loveliness,  so  flowing  with  every  line  of  voluptuous  beauty, 
have  met  for  the  first  time. 

And  yet  their  meeting  has  all  the  transport  of  a  long-indulged  love,  all 
the  intoxication  of  a  Passion,  which  is  hallowed  by  thoughts  and  memo- 
ries as  dear  as  Heaven  ! 

The  tears  rained  from  her  eyes  ;  while  her  young  bosom  rose  with  a 
more  tumultuous  throb,  and  her  face  grew  crimson  with  blushes,  she 
started  from  the  floor,  and  reached  his  side,  with  a  proud  and  passionate 
step. 

"  It  was  false,  then  ?"     She  touched  his  shoulder  lightly  with  her 
hand.    "You  love  me  not.    You  never  thought  of  me  ?" 


84  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

He  heard  the  voice,  felt  the  hand,  and  a  tremor  shook  his  frame.  He 
dared  not  turn  his  head,  and  gaze  into  her  face. 

It  is  madness  !     Only  a  dream,  from  which  I  will  soon  awake  !H 

"And  I  loved  you — God  knows  how  deep,  how  absorbing  was  my  love! 
In  the  daytime  I  thought  of  you,  and  pictured  your  form,  and  saw  your 
face,  wherever  I  turned  my  eyes  !  And  at  night,  O,  at  night,  when  all  was 
still,  and  the  Voice  broke  through  the  silence,  telling  me  of  your  love, 

breathing  your  name  at  every  word  O,  my  love  became  mad,  wild, 

boundless  as  the  great  s^ky,  which  gleams  before  us,  so  beautiful  with  its 
countless  stars.    You  love  me  not — the  Voice  has  spoken  falsely  !" 

With  that  small  hand  quivering  on  his  shoulder,  its  very  touch  thrill- 
ing a  strange  lire  through  his  veins,  he  heard  her  voice,  breaking  in  im- 
petuous accents  upon  the  stillness  of  the  midnight  chamber.  But  he 
couft  not  answer.  His  heart  was  too  full,  his  brain  too  crowded  with 
conflicting  emotions. 

He  dared  not  even  turn  to  look  upon  her  face  again. 

"  If  I  look  upon  her  I  am  lost !" 

Lost!  Lost  to  God  and  Lost  to  Purity,  Lost  to  all  those  serene 
Thoughts  which  dwelt  on  the  Majesty  of  the  star-lit  heavens — the  tender- 
ness of  a  Sister's  Love — the  divine  beauty  of  sunrise  and  sunset — those 
Thoughts  which  ascended  from  a  full  heart,  to  the  Great  Father  of  all  the 
World,  and  even  as  they  arose,  became  Prayer. 

Lost  to  all  that  was  spiritual  and  ideal,  in  the  mad  agonies  of  sensual 
passion. 

"  Lady" — he  said,  not  daring  to  look  upon  her,  though  he  felt  her  pant- 
ing breath  on  his  cheek — "  Forgive  me,  for  I  am  like  one  bewildered  in 
some  intoxicating  dream.  I  am  affrighted  at  the  beauty  of  your  face — 
your  touch  fills  my  veins  with  an  agony  of  delight.  But  there  is  a  mist 
before  my  eyes — a  sound  as  of  voices  and  echoes,  woven  together,  in  my 
ears — my  heart  swells  as  though  the  hand*)f  death  was  there  !  Forgive 
me,  lady" — he  tottered  away  from  her  extended  hand — "  forgive  and  pity ! 
For  I  cannot  look  upon  you,  without  adoration.  To  look  into  your  face 
is  to  forget  my  God  !" 

O,  how  the  roses  bloomed  on  her  cheek  again,  and  the  soft  languor  of 
passion  shone  in  her  eyes  !  She  gazed  upon  his  averted  face,  her  red 
lips  parting  like  a  severed  rose-bud,  her  bosom  throbbing  above  the  glit- 
tering fringe  of  her  black  robe,  like  a  snowy  wave,  encircled  by  rays  of 
golden  light. 

Then,  on  her  white  forehead,  from  the  crescent-shaped  brows  to  the 
roots  of  her  hair,  a  single  vein,  slender  and  serpentine,  swelled  distinctly 
into  light,  and  darkened,  without  distorting,  the  transparent  skin. 

That  sinuous  vein,  so  light  as  to  be  scarcely  perceptible,  seemed  to  indi- 
cate the  resistless  Will  of  an  organization,  which  combined  the  extremes 
of  Pride  and  Passion. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


85 


"You  love  me  !"  ske  gasped — her  hand  still  gently  laid  upon  his 
shoulder — "You  love  me  !"  And  with  her  left  arm  she  dashed  her  long 
hair  aside  from  the  bare  shoulder. 

"  Love  you  ?"  echoed  Paul — "  There  is  a  love  which  I  feel  when  I 
gaze  upon  my  sister's  face.  A  Love  as  serene  as  the  midnight  stars, 
shining  over  yon  waste  of  coldly  glittering  snow.  But  you  ?  O,  it  is  not 
love — it  is  not  enchantment — it  is  not  intoxication.  No !  It  is  as  though 
you  had  stolen  from  me  every  impulse  of  my  own  Will ;  had  said  to  me, 
*Thou  canst  not  move,  save  where  my  will  permits — nor  breathe,  save  in 
the  light  of  my  eyes — nor  live,  save  by  my  side,  and  in  my  arms  V  Love 
you?"  his  voice  sunk  into  a  whisper — "I  dare  not  turn  and  gaze  into 
your  face,  lest  I  should  blaspheme  my  God !" 

But  he  did  turn' and  gaze.  As  though  an  irresistible  influence  swayed 
his  every  motion,  he  turned,  and  beheld  her  panting  before  him,  her 
limbs  trembling  beneath  the  robe,  while  her  bared  arms  gathered  it  to 
her  passionate  breast. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  though  a  golden  mist  floated  in  waves  about  her 
form,  as  she  stood  there,  with  those  large  eyes  flashing  amid  their  tears, 
while  the  dark  hair,  waving  to  her  shoulders,  gave  an  indescribable  gran- 
deur to  the  white  forehead,  seamed  by  that  darkly  swelling  vein. 

"  You  love  me  I"   And  she  came  toward  him,  with  a  gliding  motion. 

"  Not  love — no— no  !  I  am  mad" — 

"You  love  me  !"  and  her  white  arms  were  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Pity  me — pity  me — for  the  sake  of  God,  do  not  peril  my  soul." 

"  You  love  me  !"  was  still  her  exclamation,  breathed  through  her  pas- 
sionate lips,  as  he  felt  her  arms  around  his  neck,  her  form  quivering  upon 
his  breast. 

And  her  cheek  was  against  his  own,  and  over  his  arms  and  shoulders 
her  unbound  hair  streamed,  in  waves  of  jetty  blackness. 

His  brain  reeled — the  antique  room,  with  its  quaint  wainscot,  floated 
round  him  like  the  phantom  of  some  unearthly  dream — from  head  to  foot, 
in  every  nerve  he  trembled  like  a  dying  man. 

But  still  her  arms  were  about  his  neck,  still  she  panted  on  his  breast, 
her  warm  bosom  rising,  from  its  sable  veil,  in  passionate  jfirobs,  while 
her  breath  mingled  with  his  own,  as  their  lips  trembled  together. 

There  was  a  moment  which  seemed  an  Eternity  to  him  ;  not  an  Eter- 
nity of  calm  rapture,  but  of  passionate  tumult,  of  voluptuous  madness. 

It  was  when  her  eyes  shone  their  deep  brightness  into  his  own,  when 
lip  and  breath  were  one,  when,  trembling  in  her  embrace,  he  felt  his  con- 
sciousness gliding  from  him,  in  a  languor  that  stole  upon  his  senses,  like 
some  enchanter's  spell. 

Enchanter's  spell !  What  spell  like  the  magnetism  of  a  first  love,  the 
sorcery  of  a  first  kiss,  from  lips  that  cling  as  they  touch  your  own,  and 
blossom  into  new  life  at  the  touch?  what  wizard-craft  so  maddening  in  its 


86  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

power  as  the  pressure  of  a  bosom,  that  throbs  benfiath  its  veil,  and  throbs 
closer  to  your  own,  until  your  heart  hears  it,  and  echoes  with  an  answer- 
ing throb  ? 

"  You  love  me  !  The  Voice  was  not  false  !"  and  the  burden  of  that 
virgin  form  was  in  his  arms,  the  wild  beauty  of  that  face  glowed  in  burn- 
ing blushes  beneath  his  gaze. 

"Yes — love— love  beyond  the  power  of  words  !"  he  exclaimed  in  broken 
tones,  and  his  eyes  answered  her  with  a  gaze  as  passionate  as  her  own. 

But  even  as  she  clung  to  him,  he  wound  his  hands  around  her  wrists, 
he  held  her  from  him,  and — while  a  frown  gathered  in  sudden  darkness 
on  his  brow — saw  at  a  glance  her  heaving  breast,  her  naked  feet,  her 
round,  white  arms.  Saw  the  face,  whose  brown  hues  were  lighted  with 
warm  vermilion  on  the  cheek  and  on  the  lip,  while  the  languor  of  dewy 
eyes  came  through  the  meshes  of  her  streaming  hair. 

"  O,  beautiful — 0,  fairer  than  a  dream — "  he  gasped,  his  voice  sinking 
into  a  whisper,  his  eyes  moist  with  passion. 

At  that  moment  a  crash  like  thunder  rung  through  the  old  mansion. 

"  It  is  a  knell  !"  cried  Paul—"  The  knell  of  my  lost  soul  !" 

As  he  spoke  he  withdrew  his  hands  from  her  wrists  ;  with  the  gesture 
of  a  madman,  he  dashed  her  arms  from  his  grasp  ;  and  tottered  backward, 
gazing  vacantly  into  her  face. 

She  trembled  for  a  moment — grew  pale  and  fell.  Her  long  black  hair, 
strown  over  the  floor,  with  the  golden  fringe  of  her  mantle  glittering 
against  the  transparent  whiteness  of  her  shoulders. 

She  lay  there  like  a  dead  woman,  pale  and  unconscious,  the  blood 
starting  from  the  wound  upon  her  brow,  a  wound  which  she  received,  as 
her  sudden  fall  dashed  her  head  against  the  floor. 

And  yonder,  hurrying  from  the  room,  mad  with  passion,  the  blood 
boiling  like  molten  fire  in  every  vein — yonder,  behold  Paul  Ardenheim, 
his  head  bent  on  his  breast,  as  he  flies  from  the  beautiful  woman,  as  from 
a  fiend. 

He  does  not  seek  the  shadow  of  the  recess.  No  !  Without  turning 
his  head,  without  one  backward  look,  he  grasps  the  door  in  the  southern 
wall — it  yiefts  at  his  touch — he  is  in  the  corridor,  with  the  light  of  the 
lamp,  which  shines  there,  glowing  over  his  brow. 

But  as  his  foot  is  on  the  first  step,  even  in  the  moment  of  passionate 
delirium,  when  the  face,  the  form  of  the  beautiful  girl,  floats  before  him 
in  a  veil  of  misty  light,  he  is  conscious  of  the  presence  of  a  far  different 
face,  a  widely  contrasted  form. 

Black  David  stands  beside  him,  folding  his  white  hands  upon  his 
breast,  while  his  head  is  bowed,  and  his  face  is  hidden  by  the  uneven 
locks  of  his  matted  hair. 

"  Black  David  was  wrong,  Master  Paul,"  he  mumbles  in  an  idiotic 
tone,  with  his  great  eyes  wearing  a  vacant  look—"  There's  never  a  robber 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  87 

in  the  wizard's  house.  Black  David  heard  the  voices  in  a  dream  ;  for- 
give, Master  Paul,  if  Black  David  was  foolish—" 

No  reply  came  from  the  lips  of  Paul.  He  looked  in  the  face  of 
the  deformed  man,  as  though  he  saw  him  not ;  he  dashed  his  hand  aside, 
and  plunged  down  the  stairs  with  a  madman's  step. 

As  his  face  glowed  into  the  light,  ere  it  passed  into  the  darkness, 
Black  David  saw  it  distorted  by  a  convulsive  emotion ;  as  his  step  was 
heard  in  the  hall  beneath,  Black  David  also  heard  his  incoherent  cry  : 

"Air !  air  !  The  free  air,  and  the  clear  sky  for  me — for  I  am  in  the 
Power  of  the  Evil  One,  within  these  walls  !" 

The  echo  of  the  voice  and  the  footstep  died  away,  yet  Black  David 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairway,  leaning  his  arms  upon  its  railing,  and 
gazing  silently  into  the  darkness  beneath. 

His  face  is  turned  from  the  light ;  his  hair,  which,  by  its  tangled  locks, 
makes  the  outlines  of  his  large  head  seem  yet  more  massive,  is  tinted  by 
the  lamp,  but  we  cannot  see  his  features,  nor  mark  the  expression  of  his 
lips,  nor  read  the  meaning  of  his  eyes. 

And  yet  his  form  trembles — it  quivers  like  a  falling  leaf — with  agony? 
or  with  laughter  ? 

"  Isaac  lies  insensible  on  the  floor  beside  the  corse,  and,  even  in  his 
unconsciousness,  clutches  at  the  broken  glass.  The  old  man's  hopes  are 
blighted  ;  his  heart  broken.  Paul  goes  from  the  wizard's  house,  flushed 
with  agony,  and  shrieking  for  light,  for  air  !  The  wizard's  gold  is  gone, 
and  with  it,  Gilbert,  the  bold  Huntsman.  And  the  fair  daughter, — with 
dark  eyes  and  stainless  bosom — who,  reared  by  the  old  man  from  child- 
hood, in  this  mansion,  treasures  in  her  virgin-soul  certain  vague  images 
of  the  Future,  certain  warm  imaginings  of  the  great  world  beyond  the 
glen  of  Wissahikon — what  of  the  beautiful  girl  ?  She  is  indeed  a  fair 
creature  to  look  upon.  So  queenly  her  step,  so  impetuous  her  glance,  so 
warm  her  lip,  so  beautiful  the  gloss  of  her  dark  hair,  as  it  floats  over 
shoulders  white  as  snow  !  Very  beautiful,  and  yet  the  light  of  her  eyes, 
their  very  brightness,  flashing  from  darkness,  brings  to  mind  Catherine 
De  Medicis,  the  Queen  of  Past  Ages,  who  ruled  France,  with  the  Poison- 
Phial  for  a  sceptre  !" 

Once  more  the  form  of  the  hunchback  shook  like  a  falling  leaf,  as  he 
leaned  over  the  railing  and  looked  into  the  darkness  below. 

A  pale  face  was  raised  from  the  floor,  and  eyes  glassy  and  vacant  in 
their  gaze,  glared  in  the  light  of  the  Maiden's  chamber.  With  her  fore- 
head spotted  with  blood,  she  rose,  and  clutched  the  dark  mantle  to  her 
breast,  as  she  hurried  to  and  fro,  like  one  bereft  of  reason,  now  clutching 
her  hair  with  an  involuntary  grasp,  now  tossing  it  madly  aside  from  her 
face  and  back  from  her  shoulders. 

There  was  a  terrible  beauty  in  the  sight.    A  lovely  woman,  with  her 


86 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


white  forehead  stained  with  blood,  her  hair  dishevelled,  and  her  robe 
disordered  in  every  loosened  fold,  striding,  with  an  impetuous  step  and 
flashing  eye,  over  the  floor  of  that  silent  and  gloomy  chamber. 

"  He  does  not  love  me.  It  was  false,  that  Voice  which  whispered  his 
name  to  my  ear,  told  me  to  wait  his  coming,  and  yield  my  lip  to  his  kiss ! 
Not  love,  but  scorn — ah  !"  She  uttered  a  cry  of  terror,  as  the  hand 
which  she  raised  to  her  forehead  was  wet  with  blood. 

"  Blood,  too  !    The  mark  of  the  hand  which  dashed  me  to  the  floor  !" 

She  pressed  her  clasped  hands  over  that  slowly  bleeding  wound,  and 
stood  before  the  mirror,  which  had  glided  to  its  place  again. 

"  I  am  not  lovely — no,  no,  no  !  Hideous  to  his  eyes,  as  I  will  be 
hideous  to  all  other  eyes  !  He  has  seen  a  fairer  form,  and  loved  some 
beautiful  girl,  who  has  not  dwelt  all  her  life  alone  ;  from  very  childhood, 
shut  out  from  the  world  !" 

And,  tossing  to  and  fro,  her  hands  on  her  forehead,  her  bosom  swelling 
under  the  white  arms,  she  looked  madly  into  the  mirror,  and  saw  the 
reflection  of  her  trembling  form,  her  lips  compressed,  her  face  pale  with 
agony. 

At  this  moment,  while  she  is  dumb  and  deathlike  with  the  violence  of 
her  conflicting  emotions,  a  Voice — that  seems  to  break  from  the  air- 
startles  the  silence  of  the  chamber. 

"  You  have  seen  him,  Maiden.  You  have  seen  Paul !"  there  was  a 
wild,  unearthly  music  in  that  voice. 

"  Seen  him,"  she  answered,  as  though  speaking  to  some  person  by 
her  side—"  Seen  him,  and  he  has  dashed  me  at  his  feet,  in  scorn  !" 

"  But  he^  loves  you,  maiden—" 

"  Loves  !    Witness  this  bleeding  mark  upon  my  brow.    Love  /" 

"  Loves  you,  to  madness,  and  will  come  again,  and  kneel  at  your  feet, 
and  bathe  them  with  his  tears  !" 

She  was  silent.    With  her  fingers  on  her  tremulous  lip,  she  listened. 

"  Will  seal  his  love  with  a  vow  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  lead  you  from 
this  lonely  valley  into  the  great  world.  The  unknown  Maiden  of  the 
Wissahikon  may  become  the  courted  and  flattered  Lady  of  some  royal 
court,  with  a  queenly  robe  upon  her  form,  the  eyes  of  the  great,  the  noble, 
centred  on  her  beautiful  face." 

Still  silent.  But  in  her  eyes  the  tears  were  dried,  and  from  her  lip  the 
tremor  has  passed. 

"  And  he  will  triumph  with  you,  and  ascend  with  you  the  dizzy 
heights  of  rank  and  power.  Yet,  even,  while  the  praises  of  a  world  ring 
in  his  ears,  and  all  men  hasten  to  scatter  gold  and  laurels  in  his  way, 
his  deepest  joy  will  be  thy  kiss,  O  Maiden,  his  only  heaven  in  thy 
embrace !" 

How  the  full  eyes  shot  forth  a  sudden  light,  and  the  warm  blood 
glowed  through  the  rich  brown  of  that  velvet  cheek  ! 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


89 


"  He  will  be  mine — " 

"  Thine  !  Thine  only,  and  forever.!"  said  the  voice— which  seemed 
to  speak  at  her  side,  from  the  air — and  all  was  still. 

The  light  shone  over  the  chamber,  glowing  upon  its  antique  furniture, 
glittering  on  the  mirror,  over  the  floor,  and  tinting  the  quaint  carvings  on 
the  wall,  until  the  oaken  flowers  bloom  like  life. 

But  the  Maiden  does  not  meet  our  eyes.  Her  mantle  of  black  velvet, 
fringed  with  gold,  lies  neglected  on  the  floor.  Through  the  white  cur- 
tains the  moonlight  steals,  and  mingles  its  rays  with  the  faint  light  of  the 
lamp,  and  all  is  silent  in  the  Wizard's  mansion. 

Would  you  behold  the  passionate  girl,  who,  not  long  ago,  stood  before 
the  mirror,  convulsed  with  the  agony  of  a  love,  repulsed  by  scorn  ? 

Yonder,  through  the  dark  hangings  of  the  bed,  turn  your  gaze,  and  be- 
hold a  gush  of  light  trembling  over  that  face,  sunken  deep  into  the  silken 
pillow,  with  black  hair  floating  all  around  it;  a  face  whose  lids  are 
closed,  while  the  lips  are  parted,  murmuring,  even  in  slumber,  some 
treasured  name — 

»  Paul !" 

The  lantern  shines  over  the  corridor,  and  flings  a  dim  ray  into  the 
darkness  of  the  stairway.  Black  David  is  no  longer  here ;  the  place  is 
gloomy  and  desolate. 

But  there  is  .  a  footstep  on  the  narrow  staircase,  leading  from  the 
Wizard's  tower ;  the  small  door  springs  open  ;  and  Isaac  Van  Behme 
appears  in  the  light,  his  face  deathly  pale,  his  eyes  dilating  in  their 
sockets,  with  the  glare  of  apathetic  despair.  His  slender  form  is  still 
enveloped  in  the  loose  gown,  and,  with  his  head  bent  on  his  breast,  he 
totters  from  the  door,  toward  the  descending  stairway. 

In  a  moment  he  is  gone  into  darkness  ;  gone  without  a  word,  his  hands 
clenched  on  his  breast,  his  white  hair  hanging  in  tangled  masses  over  his 
wrinkled  brow. 

With  a  footstep  that  has  no  echo,  he  descends  the  stairs,  and  presently 
stands  in  the  darkness  of  the  spacious  hall,  on  the  ground  floor. 

He  does  not  pause  a  moment,  but,  opening  a  door  in  the  side  of  the 
staircase,  he  descends,  without  a  light  to  show  the  way,  into  the  vault  be- 
neath his  mansion. 

Along  a  dark  passage  he  passes  with  that  uncertain  step,  and  in  the 
impenetrable  gloom,  extends  his  hand ;  a  door  opens  ;  the  vaulted  arch  is 
bathed  in  sudden  light. 

He  enters  that  chamber,  or  vault,  which  has  witnessed  his  toil  for 
Twenty-One  Years.  In  that  period,  no  footstep  save  Black  David's  and 
his  own  has  crossed  its  threshold. 

Through  the  gloom  of  that  wide  vault,  whose  stone  archway  is  sup- 


90  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

ported  by  four  massive  pillars,  struggles  a  pale  and  blueish  flame,  which 
invests  the  whole  scene  with  a  funereal  glare.  That  flame  shines  not 
from  a  hanging  lamp,  but  through  an  aperture  in  the  surface  of  the  white 
altar,  which  rises  in  the  centre  of  the  space  between  the  pillars. 

It  is  an  altar  of  marble,  an  oblong  square,  not  more  than  three  feet  high, 
two  in  width,  with  a  small  door  in  one  side. 

That  white  form,  rising  from  the  stone  floor,  with  a  pale  blueish  light 
gushing  from  the  aperture  in  its  surface,  alone  breaks  the  stern  gloom  of 
the  vault,  whose  massive  ceiling  and  heavy  pillars  strike  the  soul  with  a 
sensation  of  vague  awe. 

This  is  the  Wizard's  most  secret  cell.  t  There  are  no  indications  of 
his  art,  no  grinning  skulls,  nor  parchments,  darkened  by  strange  charac- 
ters, nor  alembics,  crucibles,  or  other  details  of  Astrology  or  Alchemy. 

The  pure  flame,  shining  in  a  flood  of  tremulous  light,  from  the  top  of 
the  white  altar,  glowing  like  a  spiritual  presence  through  the  gloom,  alone 
indicates  the  old  man's  toil,  his  earnest  search  of  Twenty-One  Years. 

He  stands  beside  the  altar,  all  the  anguish  of  his  blighted  hope  mani- 
fested in  the  contortions  of  his  withered  face.  Silent,  motionless,  his 
thin  hands  clenched,  and  his  head  bowed  on  his  breast,  he  gazes  on  the 
flame,  and  its  pale  light  glows  on  his  vacant  eyes. 

There  are  no  words  to  picture  the  despair  of  that  old  man's  heart. 
The  brown  sailor,  gazing  on  the  wreck  of  that  ship,  which  has  been  his 
home,  in  calm  and  storm,  for  half  a  century ;  the  renowned  general,  sud- 
denly disgraced  into  a  prisoner,  and  standing  amid  the  bodies  of  his 
mangled  comrades  ;  the  father  looking  into  the  dead  eyes  of  a  beloved 
daughter— these  all  are  subdued  by  agony  that  is  too  deep  for  utterance 
or  tears.  But  the  despair  of  the  Alchemist  was  deeper  than  all  these 
woes,  though  linked  in  one  convulsive  throb. 

He  beheld  not  the  wreck  of  a  home,  or  the  slaughter  of  an  army,  or 
the  solitary  death  of  a  daughter,  at  once  beloved  and  beautiful,  but  an  Im- 
mortal Life — almost  achieved — was  swept  into  nothingness,  even  as  he 
palpitated  on  its  threshold. 

The  Thought  of  a  life  was  dead.  Shattered  with  the  brittle  -phial, 
which  had  broken  in  his  grasp,  and  sprinkled  the  floor  with  the  priceless 
liquid  of  Eternal  Youth. 

While  thus  he  stood,  absorbed  in  his  despair,  his  blue  eyes  glowing  in 
the  light  of  the  flame,  there  came  to  his  soul  a  thought  as  sudden  as  it 
was  blasphemous. 

He  drew  from  the  folds  of  his  dress  a  pacquet,  which  he  extended  over 
the  flame.  A  stream  of  sand,  or  white  dust,  descended  from  the  pacquet, 
into  the  aperture.'  And  as  it  fell,  a  luminous  smoke  began  to  wind  in 
feathery  columns  over  the  altar,  and  float  through  the  gloom,  in  waves 
of  rolling  mist. 

It  wound  over  the  old  man's  white  hairs,  encircled  his  form,  and  ere  an 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  91 

instant  had  passed,  filled  the  dreary  vault  with  a  cloud  of  perfumed 
vapor. 

From  the  bosom  of  that  cloud  his  voice  was  heard : 

M  Even  as  the  seers  of  the  old  wisdom,  bewildered  by  the  clouds  of 
their  physical  existence,  sought  to  gain  communion  with  the  Spirits  of 
the  Invisible  World,  though  at  the  peril  of  their  deathless  souls,  so  do  I,  in 
the  name  of  the  Seven  Fallen  Angels, — who  once  stood  by  the  Throne 
of  Eternity,  bathing  their  wings  in  the  light  that  never  dies  —  invoke  the 
darkest  and  most  powerful  of  the  Seven  !  Behold  !  The  Cross  is 
beneath  my  feet — I  pray  no  longer  to — "  he  muttered  the  awful  and  in- 
communicable Name — "but  to  Ashtaroth,  the  Prince  of  the  Fallen  !" 

With  these  words  were  murmured  the  mystic  formula  of  the  ancient 
Cabalists — those  Prophets  of  the  far-gone  ages,  who  derived  their  inspi- 
ration alike  from  Good  and  Evil,  from  God  and  Satan — and  as  the  voice 
of  the  old  man  echoed,  clear  and  deep,  through  the  vault,  the  smoke- 
clouds  swept  aside  from  his  face,  and  showed  the  dauntless  Will,  written 
on  the  brow,  and  burning  in  the  eyes. 

There  was  a  pause,  and,  stricken  with  sudden  terror,  he  fell  on  his 
knees,  as  though  a  strong  arm  had  dashed  him  to  the  floor. 

"  I  am  here,"  answered  a  sad,  low-toned  voice. 

Before  the  altar,  encircled  by  clouds  of  undulating  mist,  appeared  a 
face  of  wild,  unearthly  beauty.  The  pale  features,  invested  with  a  lurid 
light,  were  seen  amid  a  mass  of  dark  hair,  waving  in  snake-like  locks, 
and  with  a  red  glow  glimmering  through  its  intervals.  The  eyes  were 
large  and  dazzling  in  their  unchanging  brightness.  The  lips  wore  a 
smile  of  undefinable  meaning  ;  now  it  was  tenderness,  and  now  scorn. 
The  forehead  was  wide  and  lofty,  growing  wider  as  it  arose,  in  an  out- 
line of  swelling  boldness  ;  the  skin  was  white  as  a  corse. 

That  face,  seen  amid  the  clouds  which  floated  to  and  fro,  seemed  like 
the  face  of  a  dead  man,  with  an  unnatural  life  just  flashing  into  its  eyes. 

There  was  a  mark  upon  the  forehead  ;  a  livid  cross,  which  blackened 
in  hideous  distinctness  on  the  death-like  brow. 

"  Thou  hast  invoked  the  most  powerful  of  the  Seven.  ,  Ashtaroth  is 
here  !    Poor  child  of  clay,  what  wouldest  thou  ask  ?" 

*  It  is  gone — the  fruit  of  my  life-long  toil—"  shrieked  Isaac,  wringing 
his  hands,  as  he  grovelled  on  the  floor,  the  cold  dew  starting  from  his 
brow — "  I  obeyed  thy  commands.  For  twenty-one  years,  night  and  day, 
without  ceasing,  the  fire  burned  within  this  altar,  atid  this  very  night,  I 
was  about  to  place  the  Water  of  Life— the  result  of  all  my  toil — on  the 
breast  of  the  dead,  when  the  phial  crumbled  in  my  grasp,  and— my  toil  is 
in  vain  !  I  have  become  old  for  naught — in  vain  this  \rain  racked  by 
the  agony  of  eternal  fever— in  vain  this  withered  form,  in  vain  these 
wrinkles,  which  have  gathered  while  my  task  wore  on — in  vain  these 
grey  hairs,  which  only  tell  how  near  that  Grave,  without  a  hope  V 


92 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  The  Water  of  Eternal  Youth,  for  which  thou  didst  seek,  in  the  long 
dream  of  a  life-time,  has  been  wasted  by  thee — wasted  as  the  dead  was 
about  to  feel  its  influence  VI 

"  Not  wasted  !  No  !  By  the  despair  which  I  feel — no  !  An  unseen 
hand  dashed  the  phial  from  my  grasp — " 

"And  for  that  priceless  liquid — wasted  in  a  moment — thou  didst 
labor  twenty-one  years,  every  year  a  century ;  the  whole  circle  of  years, 
an  Eternity ! ' 

"Dark  Angel,  it  is  not  for  you  to  taunt  me  with  my  ruin.  Your  hand 
may  have  done  this  deed  " 

"  It  was  my  deed.  I  saw  that  thou  wert  not  yet  worthy  of  the  un- 
utterable boon.  Another  trial  is  demanded,  ere  thou  wilt  be  worthy  of 
the  Forbidden  Fruit,  which  the  First  Man  and  Woman  sought  to  grasp." 

"  Twenty-one  years  !  Look  at  these  grey  hairs  !  Ere  twenty-one 
hours  are  past,  I  will  be  dead.    Dead !    And  the  Hereafter  " 

"  Thou  shalt  not  die.  Nor  is  a  trial  of  a  life-time  asked  of  thee. 
No  intense  study,  no  brain-cankering  toil — no  anxious  watch  by  night,  and 
maddening  thoughts  by  day  !  Before  the  rising  of  another  sun  thou 
mayst  raise  the  Dead,  and  from  his  lips  gain  the  knowledge  of  the  great 
secret,  which  transmutes  all  base  metals  into  Gold.'" 

"  Speak — Ashtaroth — and  I  will  worship  thee  !" 

"  Within  this  altar,  warmed  by  the  fire  that  never  dies,  still  is  conceal- 
ed the  Sacred  Urn  1" 

"  It  is  there  now  as  it  has  been  for  twenty-one  years.  Within  its  bosom, 
I  created  the  Water  of  Eternal  Youth." 

"  Pour  into  that  Urn  a  single  drop  of  blood,  warm  from  the  heart  of 
a  tempted  but  still  stainless  maiden,  and  the  Water  of  Eternal  Youth 
once  more  will  greet  your  eyes.  It  must  be  taken  from  a  heart  that 
throbs  with  the  last  pang  of  life — from  a  heart  that  quivers  with  the  last 
impulse  of  the  soul,  fluttering  ere  it  takes  its  flight." 

"  But  this  is  too  horrible — it  demands  a  Murder.     A  crime  " 

«  Dost  thou  talk  of  crime  ?  What  crime  hast  thou  not  committed  ?  Is 
it  for  thee  to  hesitate  ?" 

"  Crime  !  Have  I  been  unkind,  even  in  thought,  to  my  only  child  ? 
Has  my  hand  ever  been  closed  at  the  call  of  suffering,  the  prayer  of 
houseless  misery  ?   Of  what  crime  do  you  accuse  me  " 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  accuse.  But  woe  to  thee,  sad  and  mistaken  man, 
woe  to  thee,  when  the  Hour  of  Judgment  comes  !  The  crime  of  all 
crimes  will  be  laid  to  thy  soul,  the  blasphemy  of  daring  to  be  Immortal  ! 
The  Unpardonable  Sin  is  on  thy  head  :  it  will  weigh  thee  down,  in  the 
fathomless  anguish  of  an  Eternity  of  Crime  !" 

"  A  single  drop  of  blood,  warm  from  the  heart  of  a  tempted-  but  still 
stainless  maiden,  and  lo  !  the  Water  of  Life  is  mine.  Mine  the  secret 
of  boundless  gold." 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


93 


"  Thine  before  the  dawn  of  another  day  !  Listen  !  Even  at  this 
moment  a  pure  virgin  struggles  in  the  Tempter's  arms  !  Hasten,  ere 
she  is  a  tainted  and  dishonored  thing,  hasten  to  her  side,  and  from  her 
form,  throbbing  with  the  last  pulse  of  life,  snatch  the  priceless  boon  !" 

"I  obey  !    I  obey  !" 

Then,  in  a  low  whisper,  that  pale  face,  seen  dimly  among  misty  clouds, 
half-luminous  and  transparent,  murmured  the  syllables  of  an  unknown 
tongue.  While  his  face  was  distorted  and  his  form  cramped  by  the  vio- 
lence of  preter  natural  emotions,  Isaac  Van  Behme  bent  hishead  on  his 
breast,  and,  from  the  shadows  of  his  woven  brow,  gazed  into  the  lurid 
visage  of  the  Unknown. 

Those  words,  spoken  in  the  mysterious  tongue  of  the  Cabalists  and 
Magi  of  the  ancient  ages,  thrilled  on  the  listener's  ear.  He  heard  them 
with  a  shudder,  and  then  a  dark  cloud  rushed  upon  the  scene,  and  Isaac 
fell  forward  on  his  face,  unconscious  and  motionless  as  a  dead  man. 

"When  he  again  unclosed  his  eyes,  the  pure  spiritual  light  shone 
calmly  through  the  aperture  in  the  summit  of  the  altar,  and  glowed  upon 
the  massive  pillars,  the  gloomy  arch,  the  floor  of  solid  stone.  But  the 
mist  had  rolled  away,  and  with  it,  the  Unknown  Face  had  passed  into 
nothingness. 

"  The  maiden,"  he  murmured,  as  a  cold  shudder  shook  his  stiffened 
limbs,  "  The  maiden  whom  I  met  to-night  by  the  forest  fire,  weeping 
over  the  dead  body  of  Yoconok  !" 

He  hurried  from  the  vault.  The  door  closed  behind  him,  with  a  sud- 
den jar.  Along  the  dark  passage,  with  unsteady  steps  he  hastened,  and, 
ascending  the  stairway,  soon  reached  the  hall  on  the  ground  floor,  with 
the  light  shining  feebly  from  the  second  story,  over  its  gloom. 

As  he  hurried  to  the  door,  he  missed  his  footing,  and  stumbled  over  a 
dark  form,  which  lay  crouching  near  the  stairway. 

"  It  is  but  the  poor  brainless  hunchback  !"  he  exclaimed — "  Sleeping 
beside  the  door,  too  !    A  faithful  knave  !" 

And,  stepping  gently  over  Black  David's  form,  he  opened  the  door,  and 
passed  forth  into  the  clear,  cold  moonlight. 

No  sooner  had  his  footsteps  died  on  the  air,  than  the  Deformed  started 
to  his  feet,  and  hurried  up  the  stairs. 

Softly,  on  tiptoe,  and  with  a  gliding  footstep,  he  approached  the  door 
of  the  Maiden's  chamber,  and  bent  his  head  close  to  the  dark  panels. 
There  was  no  sound  ;  she  slept  on  her  virgin  bed,  with  her  face  sunken 
in  the  silken  pillows.  Black  David  opened  the  door  without  a  word, 
and  passed  the  threshold  of  that  sacred  retreat. 

The  lamp,  swinging  from  the  ceiling,  invested  the  place  with  a  soft, 
luxurious,  dreamy  light. 

With  the  same  noiseless  step,  the  hunchback  approached  the  bed,  and 


94  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

winding  the  tapestry  about  his  uncouth  form,  looked  within,  his  face 
glowing  on  one  cheek  with  the  dim  light. 

It  was  a  strong  contrast.  That  pale  face,  with  the  tangled  hair  float- 
ing from  its  huge  forehead  in  uneven  locks,  down  to  the  matted  beard  ; 
and  the  glowing  countenance  of  the  slumbering  girl,  who  rested  her 
cheek  upon  her  bent  arm,  while  the  dark  fringes  of  her  closed  lids,  and 
the  warm  beauty  of  her  parting  lips,  gave  a  new  loveliness  to  her  olive 
complexion,  as  her  black  hair  wandered  in  unbound  tresses  over  the 
silken  pillow. 

And,  like  some  Demon,  watching,  with  flaming  eyes  and  livid  lip,  curv- 
ing in  scorn,  the  slumber  of  an  Angel,  Black  David  stood  in  the  folds  of 
the  faded  hangings,  and  looked  upon  the  sleeping  girl. 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,  and  in  her  dreamy  sleep,  she  murmurs  the 
name  of  her  lover.  Who  could  not  predict  her  future  ?  All  that  is 
tender,  all  that  is  loving,  all  that  is  virgin  in  voluptuous  beauty,  centres 
in  her  face,  and  marks  each  outline  of  her  form.  Yet  hold — upon  her 
brow,  from  the  eyes  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  a  slender  vein — almost  im- 
perceptible—  swells  from  the  clear  skin,  and  quivers  like  a  serpent  there  ! 

So, — it  was  many  hundred  years  ago  upon  the  brow  of  woman,  as 

fair  and  beautiful,  a  similar  dark  vein  swelled  through  the  stainless  skin. 
What  was  her  fate  ? — It  seems  but  yesterday  ;  the  ages  roll  back  like  a 
curtain,  and  lay  bare  that  terrible  Memory.  What  shall  be  the  Fate  of 
this  sleeping  girl  ?  Through  the  clouds  of  the  Future  I  behold  it,  and 
see  the  serpent,  which  now  darkens  on  her  forehead,  glide  into  her  heart, 
and  drop  its  venom  from  her  rosy  lips  ! 

"  It  is  enough  to  force  a  smile,  the  folly  of  these  cowled  Mummers, 
who  picture  the  Enemy  of  Mankind  in  a  grotesque  shape — ha !  ha  !  — 
with  hoof  and  horns,  and  all  the  details  of  a  puerile  fancy. 

"  No  one  could  be  deceived  by  a  Devil  so  pitiable  as  that — not  even 
the  Priests  who  paint  him  thus  ! 

"  But  a  Devil  that  comes  panting  on  your  senses  from  a  white  bosom; 
that  kisses  you  with  warm,  voluptuous .  lips  ;  that  fires  you  with  the 
brightness  of  eyes  languid  with  passion ;  a  beautiful  Devil  altogether, 
who  wears,  on  her  fair  brow,  a  single  black  and  serpent-like  vein — 

"  Fear  Satan  at  all  times,  brave  Paul  of  Ardenheim,  but  kneel  to  God, 
and  pray  for  mercy,  when  he  comes  to  you  in  a  shape  like  this  !" 

While  the  crazed  hunchback  uttered  these  incoherent  words,  in  his 
low,  melodious  voice,  the  young  girl,  in  her  slumber,  clasped  her  white 
arms  over  her  bosom,  and  murmured,  in  a  voice  languid  with  passionate 
desire — 

"  Mine,  and  mine  only  !" 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


95 


CHAPTER  EIGHTH. 

B.  H.  A.  C. 

On  a  rock,  beside  the  Wissahikon  shore,  where,  in  the  summer-time, 
it  glides  on  without  a  ripple,  wider  and  deeper  in  its  tranquil  now,  as  it 
nears  the  Schuylkill,  stood  Gilbert,  the  Hunter,  bending  upon  his  rifle, 
with  his  eyes  cast  upon  the  waves,  which  looked  black  and  dreary,  as 
they  swept  onward,  amid  white  masses  of  ice,  glittering  in  the  rising 
moon. 

It  was  sailing  there,  in  the  pure  winter  sky,  its  cold  light  shining  over 
a  broad  hill,  which  sank  to  the  shore,  "mantled  with  frozen  snow,  and 
sparkling  like  a  sheet  of  undulating  silver,  as  the  dark  forests  girdled  it 
on  every  side. 

This  hill  rose  before  him  to  the  south,  ascending  from  the  ice-cumbered 
Wissahikon  to  the  dreary  woods,  over  whose  leafless  branches  shone  the 
transparent  sky. 

Behind  him  was  a  wall  of  brushwood,  and  a  precipitous  mass  of  forest 
trees,  which  towered  suddenly  into  the  heavens,  with  the  forms  of  gi- 
gantic rocks  thrust  here  and  there  from  the  dark  branches. 

And  from  the  gloom  in  the  east,  the  Wissahikon  comes  glittering  as 
she  flows  by  the  snow-mantled  hills  ;  and  into  the  gloom  in  the  west  she 
passes  as  suddenly, 'her  echo  breaking  in  a  low,  monotonous  murmur, 
far  along  the  woods — redoubled  by  the  craggy  rocks— and  rising,  in  soft- 
ened music,  into  the  sky. 

There  is  a  ray  gleaming  from  the  pine  trees  on  the  southern  hill  ;  it  is 
the  light  from  the  Wizard's  tower. 

From  the  gloom  at  the  hunter's  back — he  stands  facing  the  south, — an 
answering  ray  trembles  forth,  and  dies  upon  the  waters.  It  is  the  light 
stealing  from  the  closed  shutters  of  the  deserted  house. 

0,  it  is  beautiful  to  stand  thus  alone,  at  dead  of  night,  on  the  Wissa- 
hikon shore  ;  beneath  your  feet  a  rock  which,  thousands  of  years  ago, 
was  lightly  pressed  by  the  footsteps  of  some  dark-cheeked  Indian  maid, 
or  swept  by  the  white  robes  of  the  Sacrificial  Priest,  who  raised  his 
hands  to  yonder  sky,  to  yonder  moon,  and,  in  the  deep  silence  of  a  mid- 
night universe,  uttered  a  Prayer  to  God,  in  a  tongue,  now  lost  in  the 
chaos  of  the  centuries. 

It  is  beautiful,  in  the  summer-time,  when  the  broad  hill  wears  a  gar- 
ment of  tufted  grass,  and  the  world  of  foliage  bends  its  leaves  and 
blossoms  into  the  calm  waters,  while  the  distant  cry  of  a  night-bird  min- 
gles with  the  unceasing  chirp  of  the  katy-did,  and  the  soft  voice  of  Wis- 
sahikon. 


06 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


But  now,  in  Winter,  and  at  midnight  too,  when  the  breathless  stillness 
—deepened  rather  than  broken  by  the  monotonous  murmur  of  the  waves 
dashing  against  the  ice — awes  every  throb  of  your  heart  into  a  solemnity 
which  is  Religion,  while  the  eye  beholds  only  that  great  vault  of  transpa- 
rent azure,  arching  over  the  leafless  woods,  with  the  moon  gliding  away 
in  cloudless  light,  and  flinging  a  blessing  on  your  forehead  as  she  glides 

 it  is  in  winter,  at  midnight,  that  the  glen  of  Wissahikon  is  a  holy 

place,  to  which  the  Angels  might  come  as  to  a  temple,  and  breathe  their 
pity  for  the  Crimes  of  Man,  and  raise  their  hymns  of  thankfulness  to  God. 

Are  you  sick  of  the  World  ?  Do  the  crimes  of  the  Great  City  wear 
like  an  iron  fang  into  your  soul  ?  Does  the  great  panorama  of  wealth, 
that  is  drunken  with  its  boundless  sensuality,  and  Poverty,  that  is  fero- 
cious with  its  sullen  endurance,  seem  to  your  heart  but  a  curse  to  Man, 
a  blasphemy  to  God  ? 

Then,  from  the  crowded  streets  of  the  Great  City,  come  forth.  Come, 
from  that  clouded  atmosphere,  in  Whose  foul  bosom,  the  Plagues  of  Mo- 
ral Death  swelter  into  hideous  birth, — come,  and  forget  the  world  ;  forget 
the  anguish,  the  blood  and  tears  of  Man  the  Slave,  and  be  full  of  Peace, 
though  but  for  an  hour,  by  the  Wissahikon  Waters. 

For,  by  the  Wissahikon,  at  dead  of  Night,  when  there  is  snow  upon 
the  ground,  and  ice  upon  the  waves,  and  a  clear  moon  in  a  cloudless  sky, 
you  grow  nearer  to  your  God,  and  feel  your  heart  reach  out  its  arms  to 
'  grasp  Eternity. 

Then,  filled  with  Peace  that  is  unutterable,  you  even  forget  that  there 
is,  in  all  the  world,  such  a  libel  on  the  Universe  as  a  Man,  ground  into 
dust  by  the  footstep  of  a  Brother  

But  hold  ;  they  tell  me  that  I  talk  too  much  of  suffering  man,  and 
crowd  my  pages  too  full  of  his  dumb  anguish.  Talk  all  night,  if  it^please 
you,  of  still  waters  and  serene  skies, —  they  say  it — but  never  tell  us  that 
there  are  Banks  and  Churches  for  the  Rich,  and  only  Graves  and  Gibbets 
for  the  Poor. 

Pardon  me,  my  friends.  Be  merciful  to  me,  0  silken  People.  For 
what  I  speak,  I  have  learned  in  a  bitter  school.  The  world  has  not  been 
a  very  soft  road,  sprinkled  with  roses,  to  my  feet.  Will  you  forgive  me, 
if,  now  and  then,  I  dare  to  fling  back  into  my  Teacher's  face,  the  iron 
lesson  which  it  taught  to  me  ?  And  when  the  flint  of  the  rough  road  cuts 
my  feet,  will  you  sneer  very  bitterly,  if  I  but  dare  to  moan  ? 

For  myself,  I  will  be  silent.  Not  a  word  of  orphanage,  and  wrongs 
inflicted  by  godly  hands  ;  not  a  whisper. 

But  the  wrongs  of  those  who  have  suffered  like  me,  and  endured  a  thou- 
sand pangs,  where  I  felt  one, — the  anguish  of  those  who  suffer  now,  and 
go,  dragging  their  weary  feet,  to  miserable  graves — shall  they  be  voice- 
less too  ? 

No.    Not  while  the  good  God  gives  to  me  the  strength  to  grasp  this 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


97 


friend  of  mine — this  well-worn  pen,  which  has  cut  a  way  even  through 
the  granite  wall  of  poverty  and  orphanage  — no  !  Not  while  the  Father 
of  the  Fatherless,  the  Redeemer  of  the  Poor,  permits  one  throb  to  pulsate 
at  my  heart,  one  word  to  quiver  from  my  tongue. 

For  I  am  ambitious.  Ambitious  with  a  wild,  insane  ambition.  When 
I  am  dead,  I  want  one  flower  to  bloom  upon  my  grave  ;  that  flower 
planted  by  the  hand  of  some  Poor  Man,  who  can  bless  my  ashes  with  a 
word  like  this  

"  Here  moulders  the  hand  that  dared  to  write  one  brave  word  in  the 
name  of  Man." 

In  my  crude"  way  of  thinking,  there  is  something  more  beautiful  in 
that  solitary  flower,  planted  by  a  Poor  Man's  hand,  than  in  a  marble 
monument,  built  by  a  King,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  over  some  dead  Con- 
queror, whose  hallowed  epitaph  bears  words  like  these  

"He  slew,  in  a  hundred  battles,  at  least  one  hundred  thousand  of  his 
Brothers." 

But  this  midnight  scene  of  Wissahikon,  hallowed  by  this  stainless 
snow  and  moonlit  sky,  has  won  me  from  the  thread  of  my  history. 

Leaning  on  his  rifle,  Gilbert,  the  Hunter,  gazed  sadly  into  the  dark 
waters.  The  moonlight,  glowing  on  his  face,  revealed  the  look  of  tender 
sadness  which,  for  a  moment,  softened  its  hardy  features.  He  stood  on 
the  rock,  which  jutted  from  the  bank  ;  one  foot  resting  on  its  hard  surface, 
the  other  on  a  square  box,  secured  by  a  brass  padlock,  and  bound  with 
intricate  cords.  Beneath  the  lid  of  that  box,  the  wealth,  or  rather  a 
wreck  of  the  Wizard's. wealth,  was  hidden. 

"  There's  a  turnin'  pint  in  every  man's  life,"  muttered  Gilbert,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  waves — "  And  jist  as  that  ar'  twig  quivers  in  the 
eddy,  near  that  chunk  of  ice,  as  if  unsartin  which  way  to  go,  so  my 
life  quivered  this  night." 

Associating  his  own  destiny  with  the  fate  of  the  withered  twig,  which 
trembled  in  the  eddy  created  by  the  waves  dashing  against  a  block  of  ice,  in 
the  middle  of  the  stream,  Gilbert  watched  its  course  with  involuntary  in- 
terest. 

"  It  trimbles  tow'rd  the  channel  on  the  left,  where  the  eddy  grows  into 

a  little  whirlpool — so !    By  !    It  turns  to  the  right ;  it  swims  along 

the  quiet  channel,  it  curses  on  it !    It  goes  to  the  left,  after  all — it 

tosses  in  the  whirlpool — there,  it  is  safe  !" 

The  hunter's  face  glowed  with  unfeigned  pleasure,  his  breast  heaved 
with  a  deep  respiration. 

"  That  'ill  be  the  way  with  my  life.  Quiverin'  for  a  moment,  unsartin 
which  channel  to  take,  and  tossin'  on  the  waves,  only  to  go  safely  onward, 

after  all.    But  no  !    By  !  the  twig  snaps  in  pieces,  and  scatters  on 

the  waters,  in  broken  fragments  !" 

7 


98 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


Do  not  smile,  when  you  see  the  cold  dew  standing  in  beaded  drops 
from  his  forehead.  For  by  a  superstition,  common  to  the  humblest  and 
most  exalted  natures,  he  had  associated  the  Future  of  his  own  life,  with 
the  course  of  some  trifling  thing,  and  taken  the  fate  of  the  twig  as  a  Pro- 
phecy of  his  destiny. 

14  So  it  'ill  be  with  me  !  Tossed  on  the  waves  only  to  be  bruk  to 
pieces!  Well  —  well!  If  I  had  married  Mad'lin' all  would  have  been 
right,  but  now"  

An  expression  darkened  over  his  brown  face,  which  distorted  every 
bold  line,  tightened  the  lips,  and  drew  the  brows  over  the  flashing  eyes. 

"Now'" 

He  raised  his  rifle  to  his  shoulder,  and  took  deliberate  aim,  as  though 
a  mortal  enemy  was  standing  on  the  opposite  shore. 

"  That's  what  my  life  'ill  be  "  the  rifle  dropped  by  his  side  again — 

"  A  bullet  for  every  man  who  has  gold,  which  I  would  like  to  have  ;  a 
bullet  or  a  knife,  a  shot  or  a  stab  !  And  Mad'lin'  might  ha'  turned  the 
wild  life  of  one  like  me,  into  somethin'  quiet  and  full  of  Peace.  But  it 
is  past,  and  I  must  go  where  I  am  led." 

Turning  from  the  rock,  with  the  box  under  one  arm,  and  his  good  rifle 
on  his  shoulder,  Gilbert  entered  the  shadows  of  the  brushwood,  and  pur- 
sued the  windings,  of  a  foot-path,  which  led  far  into  the  gloom  of  the 
dense  forest,  now  passing  through  some  open  space,  silvered  by  moon- 
light, and  again  lost  in  the  maze  of  giant  trees. 

At  last,  emerging  from  a  thicket  of  briars  and  brushwood,  interwoven 
in  one  almost  impassable  wall,  Gilbert  beheld  the  old  house,  deep  sunken 
in  the  glen  between  two  high  hills. 

It  was  a  two-storied  structure,  built  of  dark  grey  stone,  with  four  win- 
dows on  its  front,  whose  shutters  were  closed.  Before  the  door,  on 
whose  dingy  panels  the  moon  shone  brightly,  a  huge  stone,  worn  smooth 
by  the  pressure  of  many  feet,  supplied  the  place  of  a  step.  Around 
it  the  prospect  was  wild  and  desolate.  The  stony  ground  was  covered 
with  withered  brushwood,  even  to  the  walls,  and  the  front  of  the  edifice 
alone  was  visible,  in  that  wilderness  of  giant  trees. 

The  evergreen  pine  stretched  its  branches  over  the  roof,  mingled  with 
the  leafless  limbs  of  the  chesnut  and  the  oak.  The  scyamore,  wjth  its 
white  trunk,  glared  out  in  the  light  of  the  moon  from  the  darkness  of  the 
woods.  Behind  the  deserted  mansion,  the  hill  rose  suddenly,  its  summit 
seen  through  the  trees  above  the  chimney,  which  sent  a  volume  of  smoke 
into  the  sky. 

Altogether,  that  house,  rude  and  monotonous  in  its  architecture,  pre- 
sented a  sight  of  some  interest,  from  its  very  desolation,  and  its  peculiar 
position,  in  the  hollow  of  the  glen,  encircled  on  every  side  by  the  great 
trees  of  the  forest,  with  brushwood  spreading  darkly  between  their 
trunks. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAKIKON.  99 

Gilbert  advanced  through  the  space  in  front  of  the  edifice,  where  the 
moonlight  shone  in  clear  radiance.  On  the  stone  before  the  door,  he 
paused  for  a  moment,  inclining  his  head  toward  the  panels.  All  was 
still,  yet  a  confused  sound,  like  the  songs  and  shouts  of  a  revel,  drowned 
by  thick  walls,  came  ever  and  again  at  sudden  intervals  to  his  ear. 

"  The  folks  of  Wisseyhik'n  little  dream  what  kind  o'  ghosts  haunt 
this  here  old  house  !"  he  said,  with  a  smile  upon  his  sunburnt  face. 

Then,  with  his  hand  clenched,  he  knocked  thrice  upon  the  door, 
and  heard  the  echoes  dying  away  within,  as  through  the  arches  of  a 
corridor. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  Gilbert  passed  the  threshold,  and  heard  the 
hinges  grate,  as  the  door  was  suddenly  closed  behind  him.  He  stood  in 
utter  darkness  ;  not  a  ray  of  light  shone  into  the  intense  night  of  the 
place. 

"  The  word  ?"  said  a  rough  voice. 

"Death  .'"  answered  Gilbert,  in  his  accustomed  tone. 

"  What  would  you  here  ?" 

"I  would  enter  the  Lodge  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C,"  replied  the  Hunter. 

"If  you  are  a  true  B.  H.  A.  C,  you  will  know  the  way.  Advance  and 
give  the  explanation  to  the  Word  !" 

Through  the  midnight  gloom,  Gilbert  advanced,  counting  his  measured 
footsteps.  When  he  had  measured  ten  paces  from  the  door,  he  extended 
his  hand,  and  felt  the  panels  of  another  door.  He  knocked  four  times, 
each  knock  rising  above  the  other,  and  a  circle  of  light  shone  through 
the  darkness.  It  was  a  warm  light,  shining  through  a  circular  aper- 
ture in  the  door,  and  flinging  a  faint  glow  over  the  place  in  which  he 
stood. 

By  that  uncertain  light,  it  might  be  ascertained  that  he  had  entered  a 
small  apartment,  the  monotony  of  whose  bare  walls,  and  uncovered  floor, 
was  only  broken  by  a  dimly-defined  figure  near  Gilbert's  side. 

The  Hunter  applied  his  lips  to  the  circular  aperture  in  the  door,  and 
whispered  these  words  : 

"  to  the  Rich!" 

As  he  spoke,  the  door  opened,  and  in  a  moment,  Gilbert  stood  in  a  cell- 
like room,  lighted  by  a  lamp  which  hung  from  the  ceiling,  and  revealed 
the  dark  hangings,  the  floor  strown  with  sand.  A  single  chair  stood  near 
the  door,  and  leaning  on  its  high  back,  a  veiled  figure  appeared,  shrouded 
from  head  to  foot  in  a  dark  robe,  with  a  cowl  drooping  over  the  face. 
On  that  part  of  the  cowl  which  concealed  the  face,  two  letters  were  in- 
scribed in  golden  embroidery — "  B.  H.  A.  C." 

"  Your  name  ?"  a  deep  voice  exclaimed,  speaking  from  the  folds  of  the 
monkish  cowl. 

"  Gilbert  Morgan,  a  Brother  of  the  Rifle  Lodge,  Number  256,  of  the 
B.  H.  A.  C." 


100 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  Give  the  Word  and  its  explanation,  so  that  I  may  know  you  for  a 
Brother." 

44  Death— to  the  Rich  /" 

44  It  is  well.  Clothe  yourself  with  appropriate  Regalia,  and  work  your 
way  into  the  Lodge.    The  door  is  before  you." 

Placing  his  rifle  on  the  floor,  and  with  it  the  box,  containing  the  Wiz- 
ard's gold,  Gilbert  lifted  the  dark  curtain  which  concealed  the  walls,  and 
took  from  a  recess,  or  closet,  a  collar  of  scarlet  velvet,  edged  with  gold 
lace,  and  with  a  dagger  emblazoned  on  one  side,  a  skull  and  cross-bones 
on  the  other. 

He  placed  it  around  his  neck,  and  then  took  from  the  closet  an  apron 
of  the  same  material,  also  edged  with  gold,  but  with  the  letters,  B.  H.  A. 
C,  embroidered  in  the  centre.  He  secured  it  round  his  waist  by  a  cord, 
ending  in  a  tassel  of  gold,  and  thus  arrayed  in  the  Regalia  of  the  Order, 
advanced  toward  a  door,  whose  narrow  panels  appeared  among  the  som- 
bre hangings  of  the  room.  The  box  was  under  his  left  arm,  the  rifle  on 
his  shoulder,  as  he  knocked  five  times,  with  a  pause  between  each  sound. 

44  Who  comes  there  ?"  a  voice  was  heard  speaking  through  a  square 
aperture  in  the  centre  of  the  door. 

"  4 A  Brother  of  the  Knightly  Degree,'  "  answered  Gilbert,  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  repeats  some  carefully  remembered  formula. 

44  The  word  of  the  Knightly  Degree  ?" 

444  FJfe'  "  answered  Gilbert. 

44  To  whom  ?" 

444          To  the  Poor!'  " 

44  Enter,  Brother  Knight  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C.,"  exclaimed  the  voice, 
which  was  heard  through  the  circular  aperture  in  the  door. 

And  ere  a  moment  had  passed,  Gilbert,  passing  the  door,  which  closed 
after  him,  found  himself  encircled  by  the  details  of  a  scene  of  peculiar 
interest. 

It  was  a  large  ,  room,  with  a  lofty  ceiling,  and  a  dim  light  quivering  in 
mid  air.  The  high  walls  were  hung  with  dark  cloth,  on  which  was  em- 
blazoned various  letters  and  symbols,  some  of  the  most  grotesque,  others 
of  the  most  impressive  character. 

At  the  eastern  end  of  the  room,  rose  a  platform,  attainable  by  three 
wide  steps,  covered  with  dark  cloth.  On  this  platform  was  placed  a 
chair  or  throne,  in  which  was  seated  a  man  of  muscular  form,  attired  in 
almost  regal  splendor.  There  was  a  glittering  crown  upon  his  forehead 
— a  scarlet  robe  upon  his  form,  drooping  from  his  shoulders  to  his  feet, 
in  luxurious  folds  — and  on  his  breast  a  collar  of  dark  purple  velvet,  em- 
blazoned on  one  side  witli  the  dagger,  on  the  other  with  the  skull  and 
cross-bones.  The  black  veil  which  concealed  his  face  bore  the  golden 
letters,  B.  H.  A.  C. 

This  was  the  Worthy  Master  of  the  Rifle  Lodge,  No.  256,  of  the  B. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


101 


H.  A.  C.  His  purple  collar  indicated  the  Right  Venerable  or  Priestly- 
degree. 

Opposite  this  platform,  in  the  western  extremity  of  the  Lodge,  was  a 
smaller  platform,  rising  two  steps  above  the  floor,  with  an  oaken  chair 
upon  its  summit.  Here  was  seated  a  figure,  veiled  in  a  light-blue  robe, 
with  a  scarlet  collar,  gleaming  with  emblems,  on  his  breast,  and  a  coronal 
of  silver  leaves  entwined  about  his  brow.  His  face,  covered  by  a  veil 
of  black  cloth,  with  spaces  for  the  eyes,  also  bore  the  letters,  B.  H.  A.  C. 

This  was  the  Honorable  Warden  of  the  Lodge,  clad  in  the  regalia  of 
the  Venerable  or  Knightly  Degree. 

And  between  the  Warden  and  the  Master,  were  seated  some  hundred 
men,  every  face  covered  with  a  veil,  every  form  bearing  the  regalia  of 
the  order,  either  the  white  scarf  of  an  Initiate,  or  the  scarlet  collar  of  a 
Knight,  or  the  purple  insignia  of  a  Priest.  In  the  dim  light,  the  effect  of 
this  scene  was  at  once  solemn  and  dazzling. 

The  floor  was  of  dark  wood,  polished  like  a  mirror.  In  its  centre, 
appeared  a  large  star,  inserted  in  the  polished  wood,  and  glittering  like 
burnished  gold. 

To  this  star  Gilbert  advanced,  and  placed  the  box  and  the  rifle  at  his 
feet.  Then,  raising  his  clasped  hands  above  his  head,  he  bowed  before 
the  Worthy  Master,  who  slowly  imitated  the  gesture,  after  which  Gilbert 
spread  forth  his  arms,  with  the  fingers  of  each  hand  extended  and  sepa- 
rate from  each  other. 

"  Right,  Brother !"  a  voice  sounded  from  beneath  the  Master's  veil. 

The  Hunter,  turning  on  his  heel,  faced  the  Worthy  Warden,  and  sa- 
luted him  with  the  same  sign. 

Then,  lifting  the  box  and  the  rifle  from  the  floor,  he  took  his  seat 
among  the  veiled  brethren,  covering  his  face  with  a  veil  similar  to  the 
others,  which  was  extended  to  him  by  a  figure  clad  in  a  shapeless  black 
robe,  with  a  dark  plume  waving  from  his  shrouded  forehead.  This  was 
the  Worthy  Herald  of  the  Lodge. 

"Let  the  rite  of  Initiation  begin!"  said  the  Worthy  Master,  in  a  hol- 
low voice,  which,  evidently  assumed,  echoed  through  the  spacious  room, 
with  a  strange  and  unnatural  emphasis. 

And  from  the  dark  hangings  near  the  Warden's  Platform,  the  Herald, 
clad  in  black,  with  the  plume  waving  over  his  veiled  face,  led  forth  a  half- 
naked  man,  whose  eyes  were  covered  by  a  white  scarf,  bound  tightly 
around  the  brows.  His  form,  bare  to  the  waist,  was  marked  by  a  broad 
chest,  and  arms  of  iron  muscle.  And  yet,  as,  with  his  eyes  blindfolded, 
he  followed  the  Herald,  he  trembled  like  a  man  seized  with  an  ague-chill. 
It  could  not  have  been  with  cold,  for,  either  from  the  heat  of  a  fire  which 
was  invisible,  or  from  the  numbers  gathered  in  the  darkened  room,  the 
air  was  hot  and  stifling. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  for  the  space  of  ten  minutes,  but  in  that  space, 


102  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

the  senses  of  the  Candidate  were  completely  bewildered.  He  was  led 
to  and  fro,  now  crossing  the  room,  now  traversing  its  entire  length,  now 
suddenly  turned  in  his  course,  and  forced  on  his  knees,  by  the  hands  of 
the  Herald. 

It  was  plainly  to  be  seen,  that  the  dead  silence  of  the  place  awed  the 
senses  of  this  strong  man,  while  the  manner  in  which  the  Herald  led 
him,  gave  him  the  idea  of  traversing  winding  corridors,  long  passages, 
and  a  wide  range  of  rooms.  For  as,  in  his  blindfolded  career,  he  ap- 
proached the  eastern  or  western  extremities  of  the  Lodge,  the  doors  ap- 
pearing amid  the  hangings  were  opened  and  closed,  with  a  harsh,  grating 
sound.  And  every  time  he  passed  the  golden  star,  glittering  from  the 
centre  of  the  floor,  a  figure  robed  in  white  advanced  from  the  crowd  of 
brethren,  and  waved  a  burning  flambeau  in  his  face. 

This  impressed  him  with  the  idea  of  a  fire,  blazing  in  his  path,  and 
about  to  envelop  him  with  its  flames. 

Indeed,  the  silent  ceremonial,  altogether,  was  calculated  to  chill  with 
awe  the  firmest  nerves  ;  to  weaken,  with  the  rapid  alternations  of  sus- 
pense and  fear,  the  stoutest  heart.  The  ten  minutes — which  seemed  an 
eternity  to  the  blindfolded  man— were  over  at  last.  A  deep  bell,  striking 
one,  and  echoing  like  a  knell,  broke  on  his  ear. 

"  Thou  art  here,  in  the  hallowed  circle  of  the  Free  Lodge  of  the  B.  H. 
A.  C,"  said  the  Herald,  in  a  guttural  tone. 

Then  chains  were  dashed  upon  the  floor,  and  clanked  at  his  back. 
The  harsh  sound,  breaking,  in  sudden  violence,  from  the  dead  stillness, 
seemed  to  complete  the  terror  of  the  Initiate.  His  bared  arms  trembled  ; 
his  knees  quivered,  and  shook  against  each  other. 

"  Do  not — do  not — "  he  gasped — "  I  will  obey — " 

Still,  no  voice  was  heard  in  answer;  an  unbroken  silence  prevailed. 

While  the  Herald  bound  the  chains  about  his  bared  chest,  and  twined 
their  cold  links  around  his  naked  arms,  four  figures  clad  in  white,  with 
torches  in  their  hands,  bore  from  the  shadows  a  bier,  on  which  was 
placed  a  motionless  figure,  in  a  sitting  posture,  with  two  hands  extended 
from  the  black  pall  which  covered  its  outlines. 

"It  is  the  body  of  the  Dead  !"  whispered  the  Herald—"  It  is  beside 
thee,  on  its  bier.  Its  face  is  covered  by  a  pall,  but  the  cold,  stiff  hands 
are  extended,  to  clasp  thee  in  : the  embrace  of  Death.  Art  thou  ready 
for  the  trial  ?" 

And  as  he  spoke,  a  chorus  of  hollow  whispers  echoed  in  the  ear  of 
the  Candidate—"  It  is  the  corse  of  one  who  betrayed  his  trust" — "  He 
died  in  the  act  of  crime" — "  The  vengeance  of  the  Lodge  overtook 
him  at  the  altar,  even  as  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  Bride"  

"  The  trial  ?"  faltered  the  Candidate. 

"  Yes,  the  solemn  ordeal  of  the  dead  hand  !"  spoke  the  Herald  in  his  hol- 
low voice.    "  Give  me  thy  hand.    Press  the  hand  of  the  dead — thus — 11 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  103 

The  Initiate  shook  like  a  reed,  as  he  felt  those  cold  fingers  in  his 
grasp. 

"  Clasp  it  firmly,  and  repeat  with  me  the  obligation  of  a  Free  Brother 
of  the  B.  H.  A.  C.  '■If  in  my  heart  there  is  hidden  one  thought  of 
treachery  to  the  Order,  in  whose  Lodge  I  stand,  may  my  hand  become 
like  the  hand  which  I  grasp  ;  and  in  witness  of  this  my  vow,  I  raise  to 
my  lips  the  cold  hand  of  the  Bead.''  " 

The  Candidate  faltered  the  words,  with  a  pause  between  each  syllable, 
as  though  his  fears  had  choked  his  utterance. 

"  Raise  the  hand  to  your  lips"  — spoke  the  deep  voice  in  his  ear. 

With  his  strong  arm  trembling  in  every  nerve,  he  slowly  lifted  the 
dead  hand,  and  felt  its  fingers  grow  colder  in  his  grasp.  He  pressed  it 
to  his  lips,  and  as  the  moist,  clammy  skin  filled  him  with  a  sensation  of 
intolerable  loathing,  he  let  it  fall,  as  though  it  was  a  hand  of  red-hot  iron. 

"  Examine  the  hand,  Honorable  Herald" — spoke  the  Worthy  Master 
from  his  throne — "  If  there  is  a  drop  of  blood  upon  the  palm,  this  Candi- 
date will  prove  a  Traitor  !" 

A  dead  silence  ensued.  The  Initiate,  shuddering  with  suspense, 
awaited  the  result  of  this  strange  ordeal. 

"  There  is  !"  shouted  the  Herald  in  tones  of  thunder — "  There  is  a 
drop  of  blood  upon  this  dead  hand." 

"  Then,"  exclaimed  the  Master,  starting  erect  on  his  platform,  with 
his  regalia  glittering  in  the  dim  light — "  Then  have  we  a  Traitor  in  our 
midst.  Brothers,  arise— arise  with  daggers  drawn,  and  hurl  the  wretch 
to  his  doom  !" 

A  confused  sound,  as  of  trampling  feet,  and  rustling  robes,  and  sharp 
steel,  clanking  from  the  sheath,  crashed  on  the  Initiate's  ear. 

His  knees  sank  beneath  him  ;  prostrate  on  the  floor,  with  the  bandage 
still  over  his  eyes,  he  faltered  the  incoherent  prayer — 

"  Mercy  !    No  Traitor,  but  a  true  man — do  not"  — 

He  felt  the  points  of  the  drawn  daggers  touch  his  face,  his  breast,  his 
arms.    He  was  encircled  by  a  wall  of  deadly  steel. 

"  Death  to  the  Traitor — death  !"  arose  from  an  hundred  voices.  "  He 
will  betray  us  —  he  must  not  leave  the  Lodge  alive — the  drop  of  blood  on 
the  hand  of  the  dead,  bears  witness  against  him  !" 

Then  a  voice,  deeper  and  bolder  than  all  the  others,  was  heard  through 
the  uproar  : 

"  Prepare,  Brothers,  prepare  your  daggers  !  When  I  raise  my  hand, 
plunge  them,  one  and  all,  and  at  the  same  moment,  into  the  body  of  the 
Traitor  !" 

There  was  a  pause.  A  breathless  silence  reigned.  The  Initiate  moved 
his  lips,  but  he  could  not  speak.  His  head  sunk  upon  his  breast,  and 
his  arms  fell  motionless  in  their  chains. 

At  this  moment,  a  whisper  disturbed  the  breathless  stillness — 


ig-4  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

"  Shall  we  spare  him  ?  He  may  repent  !  Even  yet,  Brothers,  he  may 
be  true  !" 

And  in  answer  other  whispers  arose — 

*«  No  !  we  cannot  spare  him.  He  is  doomed.  Look  !  The  Worthy 
Master  is  about  to  lift  his  hand  !" 

A  picture  of  terror  more  abject  cannot  be  imagined,  than  was  presented 
in  the  prostrate  figure  of  that  strong  man,  bound  in  chains, and  surrounded 
by  the  crowd  of  veiled  forms,  flashing  with  regalia,  a  dagger  glittering  in 
each  uplifted  hand. 

The  light  suspended  from  the  ceiling  grew  fainter,  and  a  gloom  more 
impressive  than  intense  darkness,  sank  on  the  scene,  confounding  the 
forms  of  the  brethren,  in  one  vague  mass  of  half-shadow,  from  which — 
like  flame-sparks  from  a  cloud — their  regalia  glittered  in  tremulous  points 
of  radiance. 

"  What  wouldst  thou  do,  to  obtain  light  and  liberty  ?"  said  a  voice — it 
was  the  disguised  voice  of  the  Herald. 
The  Initiate  could  not  answer. 

"  Let  the  bandage  be  removed  from  his  eyes.  He  shall  behold  the 
doom  that  awaits  him." 

There  was  a  mingled  sound  as  of  whispering  voices  and  steps  hurrying 
to  and  fro,  with  the  sharp  clang  of  steel  encountering  steel,  heard  through 
the  confusion. 

The  Initiate  felt  the  bandage  drop  from  his  eyes.  It  was  a  moment 
before  he  could  recover  the  use  of  his  sight,  but  when  he  gazed  around, 
he  discovered  that  he  was  kneeling  in  the  centre  of  a  room  not  more  than 
ten  feet  square,  with  a  lofty  ceiling,  and  hangings  of  midnight  darkness. 

Before  him  stood  a  man,  enveloped  in  a  shapeless  garment  of  coarse 
cloth,  grey  in  color,  and  with  a  veil  of  black  crape  over  his  face.  In  one 
hand  he  held  a  glittering  axe,  in  the  other  a  flaming  torch,  whose  red 
light  imparted  a  lurid  glare  to  the  terror-stricken  face  of  the  Initiate. 
Beside  this  figure  was  an  elevation,  covered  with  black  velvet.  It  was  the 
block  of  the  scaffold. 

"  I  am  thy  executioner  !"  said  the  figure — "Advance  and  lay  thy  head 
upon  the  block  !" 

The  face  of  the  Initiate,  changed  from  its  ruddy  hues,  to  a  corse-like 
pallor,  was  agitated  in  every  nerve.  He  raised  his  chained  hands,  and 
gasped  

"  I  am  no  Traitor  !" 

"  Come  !  The  moment  of  your  death  is  here.  Hark  !  That  bell ; 
you  hear  it  ?    It  is  your  funeral  knell." 

He  tottered  to  his  feet,  entirely  awed  by  the  terrors  which  he  had  en- 
dured. With  one  step  he  reached  the  block,  and  knelt  and  laid  his 
head  upon  it.  He  saw  the  axe  flash  in  the  air,  in  the  red  light  of  the 
torch  


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


105 


He  closed  his  eyes. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  axe  did  not  fall.  Tremblingly  the  Initiate 
unclosed  his  eyes,  and  felt  them  blinded  by  a  dazzling  light. 

The  four  curtains,  which,  descending  from  the  ceiling  of  the  Lodge, 
had  formed  the  cell-like  apartment,  were  rolled  aside,  and  the  sight 
which  met  the  eyes  of  the  affrighted  man,  was  brilliant  beyond  the  power 
of  language. 

An  hundred  torches,  each  grasped  in  the  arm  of  a  Brother  of  the  Order, 
lighted  up  the  spacious  Lodge  room,  and  shone  on  the  stars  and  jewels, 
— the  symbols  and  robes — in  one  vivid  flood  of  brightness. 

High  on  his  platform,  his  breast  heaving  under  its  purple  collar,  ap- 
peared the  Worthy  Master,  with  lines  of  veiled  forms,  extending  from  his 
side,  down  the  steps  of  the  platform,  to  the  floor ;  and  in  every  hand  a 
torch  blazed  brightly,  and  on  every  neck  the  gorgeous  regalia  glittered 
with  blinding  radiance. 

"Arise!  Advance!  We  hail  you  as  a  Brother!"  exclaimed  the 
Worthy  Master,  in  a  loud  and  ringing  voice. 

Trembling  still,  the  Initiate  rose;  the  chains  fell  from  his  breast  and 
arms  ;  guided  by  the  Herald's  hand,  he  approached  the  Master's 
platform. 

And  from  his  pale  face  the  sweat  started  even  yet  in  beaded  drops. 

He  glanced  from  side  to  side,  on  the  array  of  veiled  figures,  clad  in 
robes  of  linen  and  purple,  and  decked  with  symbols  that  shone  like  stars, 
and  then  his  eye  was  centred  on  the  Master's  form,  who  stood  motionless 
upon  his  platform,  with  a  golden  torch  held  in  his  extended  arm. 

"  Thou  hast  passed  the  first  ordeal.  Another  yet  remains.  Yet,  ere 
we  try  thy  courage,  and  test  thy  faith,  with  the  Ordeal  of  Blood,  1  have  a 
charge  to  impress  upon  thy  soul." 

The  Initiate  beheld  a  Brother  clad  in  white  advance,  holding  in  one 
hand,  a  coarse  garment,  flaming  red  in  hue,  and  in  the  other,  a  knife, 
rusty  and  dim,  as  with  the  stain  of  blood. 

"  Endue  the  Candidate  with  the  Blood-red  robe.  Place  in  his  hand 
the  rusted  knife." 

It  was  done.  With  the  coarse  garment  on  his  broad  chest,  and  the 
knife  in  his  hand,  the  Initiate  awaited  the  commands  of  the  Worthy 
Master. 

"  Canst  thou  tell,  O  Candidate,  whose  blood  it  is,  that  dyes  the  sack- 
cloth which  now  covers  your  form  ?" 

The  Initiate's  grey  eyes  expanded  in  wonder. 
V  I  cannot  tell !"  he  faltered. 

"  It  is  the  Blood  of  the  Poor,"  exclaimed  the  Master. 
From  a  hundred  voices  broke  the  chorus  : 

"  The  sackcloth  bears  witness  of  the  Wrongs  of  the  Poor,  slain  for 
ages  by  the  axe,  by  the  cord,  by  the  iron  hand  of  the  Tyrant !" 


106 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  The  dagger  in  thy  hand  is  dimmed  by  a  dusky  stain.  Whose  blood  is 
it,  that  gathers  in  blackness  on  its  sharp  point  ?" 
"  I  cannot  tell — " 

"  It  is  the  blood  of  the  Oppressor,"  said  the  Master ;  and  again  the 
voice  of  the  Brothers  joined  in  chorus  : 

"  The  Blood  of  the  Tyrant !  Sacred,  in  the  sight  of  God,  be  the  steel 
which  is  crimsoned  by  that  blood  !" 

"  This  sackcloth,  stained  with  the  blood  of  the  Poor,  this  dagger,  rusted 
by  the  blood  of  the  Tyrant's  heart,  have  for  thee  a  solemn  lesson.  That 
lesson  marks  thy  first  step  into  the  mysteries  of  our  Order.  Listen !  So 
long  as  the  blood  of  the  Poor  dyes  the  sackcloth,  so  long  will  the  blood 
of  the  Tyrant  stain  the  dagger.  The  day  comes,  when  the  sackcloth 
shall  be  changed  into  a  garment  spotless  as  the  snow,  when  the  dagger 
shall  be  transformed  into  a  Cross  of  dazzling  light.  Then  shall  the  blood 
of  the  Poor  no  longer  flow,  then  shall  the  earth  be  no  longer  polluted  by 
the  Tyrant's  step.  But  until  that  day  comes,  we  have  joined  in  solemn 
covenant ;  wilt  thou  take  the  Oath  of  that  covenant,  and  bind  its  motto  to 
thy  heart?" 

"I  will !" 

"  Warden,  administer  the  Oath." 

The  Candidate,  attired  in  the  bloody  sackcloth,  with  the  rusted  knife  in 
his  hand,  was  led  along  the  floor,  through  the  dazzling  array  of  the 
crowded  Lodge.  In  a  few  moments  he  stood  at  the  western  extremity  of 
the  room,  at  the  foot  of  the  Warden's  platform. 

The  Warden,  gorgeous  in  his  light-blue  robe,  varied  by  the  scarlet 
collar,  and  with  a  group  of  white  plumes  tossing  about  his  veiled  brow, 
descended  the  steps,  holding  in  his  hand  a  goblet,  filled  to  the  brim  with 
a  red  liquid. 

"  Kneel,  and  repeat  the  oath  !  I  do  swear,  in  the  name  of  *  *  *  ,  to 
obey  forever  the  mandate  of  my  superiors  ;  to  keep  locked  in  my  bosom 
the  secrets  of  this  order  ;  to  yield  them  up,  neither  to  the  fear  of  man,  the 
love  of  woman,  nor  yet  the  terrors  of  the  grave.  I  also  swear  ***** 
***********  *^  Furthermore,  in  case  I  prove  recreant  to  my 
oath,  and  refuse  to  obey  the  commands  of  my  superiors,  or  reveal  the 
secrets  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C,  or  meet  with  any  Lodge,  not  chartered  by  the 
Grand  Lodge  of  this  order,  may  the  dagger  of  the  first  brother  whom  I 
encounter  be  planted  in  my  heart;  may  the  sun  refuse  me  warmth, 
water  fail  to  quench  my  thirst,  and  earth  deny  me  the  shelter  of  a  grave." 

"  So  mote  it  be  !    Amen  and  Amen  !" 

"  And  in  witness  of  this  oath,  and  of  this  invocation,  I  place  to  my  lips 
this  goblet,  filled  with  the  blood  of  a  Brother  who  betrayed  his  trust.  So 
may  my  blood  be  drunken,  in  case  I  imitate  the  perjury  of  the  Traitor !" 

He  did  not  refuse  the  goblet  nor  fail  to  utter  the  words.  With  a  fren- 
zied gesture,  he  raised  it,  and  moistened  his  lips  with  the  loathsome  liquid. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  107 

Once  more,  terror-stricken  by  this  horrible  formula  of  blasphemy, 
which  his  lips  had  repeated,  the  candidate  was  led  to  the  east,  where  the 
Master's  platform  rose. 

"  Wouldst  thou  know  the  great  watchword  of  our  order?  Then  listen 
and  repeat  with  me  

"'Death  to  the  Rich — Life  to  the  Poor!'" 

The  Initiate's  eyes  flashed,  as  he  uttered  the  words  in  a  tone  of  violent 
emphasis. 

And  through  the  Lodge,  spoken  slowly  and  in  distinct  utterance,  it 
floated — that  fearful  watchword, 

— "  Death  to  the  Rich — Life  to  the  Poor  !" 

"  Prepare  for  the  last  trial.  Now  comes  the  ordeal  of  Blood.  Fail 
in  this,  and  thou  canst  never  leave  these  walls  a  living  man." 

At  this  crisis,  a  door  near  the  warden's  platform  was  suddenly  opened. 
On  the  threshold  appeared  a  figure,  clad  in  an  array  whose  splendor 
shamed  even  the  dazzling  regalia  of  the  Lodge. 

Clad  from  head  to  foot  in  white  velvet,  sprinkled  with  innumerable 
silver  stars,  with  a  dove  and  olive  branch,  of  gold,  emblazoned  on  his 
breast,  this  figure  bore  in  his  hand  a  black  wand,  with  a  skull  and  cross 
bones  affixed  to  its  upper  extremity. 

As  the  Worthy  Master  beheld  this  figure,  he  knocked  four  times  in  suc- 
cession, with  the  gavel  or  hammer,  which  lay  on  the  pedestal  arising  in 
front  of  his  chair. 

"  Arise,  my  brethren,  and  greet  the  Grand  Herald  of  the  Grand  Lodge 
of  the  B.  H.  A.  C. !" 

With  one  movement  they  rose,  and  bending  their  heads,  held  their 
torches  high  in  the  air  with  the  left  hand,  while  the  right  was  clasped 
upon  the  breast. 

"Hail  to  the  Grand  Lodge  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C,  and  hail  to  its  Messen- 
ger, who  deigns  to  walk  in  our  midst." 

Descending  from  the  platform,  the  Worthy  Master  knelt  at  its  foot, 
while  the  Grand  Herald  took  the  vacant  chair,  and,  through  the  apertures 
of  his  white  veil,  surveyed  the  dazzling  array  of  the  Lodge. 

"  Thy  bidding,  Most  Honorable  Herald  ?  Does  the  Grand  Lodge 
communicate  with  its  subordinate  Lodge  ?" 

"  I  come  from  the  Grand  Lodge,  Worthy  Master,  and  come  to  claim  a 
Brother  who  has  betrayed  our  order,  and  broken  his  vows  !" 

Thus  speaking,  the  Grand  Herald  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  platform, 
with  his  snow-white  robe  glittering  in  every  star. 

It  was  evident  that  his  words  produced  a  marked  sensation.  The 
kneeling  Master  started,  with  the  same  feeling  of  surprise  which  thrilled 
through  an  hundred  breasts.  Gilbert  the  hunter,  with  his  face  veiled— 
the  rifle  and  the  casket  resting  at  his  feet — started  forward,  and  listened  with 
great  eagerness,  his  curiosity  excited  by  the  message  of  the  Grand  Herald 


108  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  A  Traitor  in  our  Lodge,  Right  Honorable  Herald  ?" 

"  In  your  Lodge,  Worthy  Master.  Let  him  step  forth,  ere  his  name  is 
known.  With  his  face  covered  by  the  veil,  let  him  follow  me  to  the 
Hall  of  the  Grand  Lodge,  and  hear  his  doom  pronounced  without  a 
murmur." 

That  voice,  soronous  and  bold,  pierced  every  ear. 

There  was  a  confused  movement  among  the  ranks  of  the  Brethren  ;  the 
murmur  of  mingled  voices  ;  and  all  was  still  again. 
"  His  Degree,  Right  Honorable  Herald  ?" 

"  He  wears  the  collar  of  Knighthood.  At  this  moment  I  behold  him. 
Once  more  I  extend  to  him  the  mercy  of  secresy.  He  shall  be  con- 
demned and  suffer,  without  his  name  being  revealed,  in  case  he  follows 
me  in  silence  to  the  Hall  of  the  Grand  Lodge." 

Still  no  answer  was  made  ;  the  Grand  Herald  might  be  seen,  with  his 
veiled  face  turned  toward  a  particular  point  of  the  room.  Gilbert 
Morgan,  gazing  through  his  veil,  beheld  him  looking  intently  upon  the 
brethren  among  whom  he  stood,  and  awaited  with  a  vague  curiosity, 
tinged  with  some  awe,  the  utterance  of  the  Traitor's  name. 

"  A  Knight,"  he  muttered,  "  and  a  traitor  too  !  Hard  to  believe  ;  for  a 
man  who's  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Degree,  knows  too  well  the  fate  of  a 
Traitor,  to  think  o'  betrayin'  his  trust !" 

And  the  stout  huntsman  smiled  and  shuddered  at  once,  as  he  called  to 
mind  the  words  of  that  fearful  Oath.  Smiled  as  if  in  scorn,  at  the  elabo- 
rate blasphemy  of  those  words  ;  shuddered  as  he  remembered  the  doom 
which  had  overtaken  a  recreant  Brother. 

The  revery  of  the  hunter  was  broken  by  the  voice  of  the  Grand 
Herald. 

"  Once  more  I  speak  to  him.  His  foot  is  on  the  box,  and  by  his  side 
the  rifle—" 

Gilbert's  torch  shook  with  the  same  tremor  which  heaved  his  broad 
chest,  and  quivered  in  every  nerve  of  his  iron  arm. 

"  What !    I  can't  a-heerd  my  ears  !    'His  foot  on  the  box!1 — " 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  every  veiled  face  was  turned  toward  him,  as  by 
an  electric  impulse  ;  he  saw  the  glittering  forms  and  long  lines  of  torches 
go  swimming  round  him,  as  if  in  a  spectral  dance. 

"  Stand  forth,  Traitor — "  the  Grand  Herald  pointed  with  his  wand  as 
he  spoke — "  Stand  forth,  perjured  Knight,  and  let  the  B.  H.  A.  C.  know 
the  Traitor  who  has  betrayed  the  secrets  of  his  Order.  Gilbert  Morgan, 
Brother  of  the  Knightly  Degree,  descend  from  your  seat,  and  take  your 
place  upon  the  star  in  the  centre  of  the  floor  !" 

Gilbert  heard  that  voice,  and  seemed  to  behold  the  floor  open  in  a 
*  chasm  at  his  feet.  He  obeyed  without  a  word.  Descending  from  his 
seat — it  was  on  the  second  range  from  the  level  of  the  floor — he  slowly 
strode  toward  the  golden  star. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  109 

He  saw  the  fingers  pointing  at  him  ;  he  heard  the  whispers,  some  of 
pity,  others  of  scorn. 

«  The  Traitor  !"  "He  false  to  our  order  !"  "  Let  him  be  dealt  with  as 
the  law  enjoins  !" 

And  yet,  tearing  the  veil  from  his  face,  he  dashed  it  on  the  floor,  and 
with  it  his  collar  and  his  robe  of  Knighthood.  Then  folding  his  arms 
over  his  blue  hunting-shirt,  he  gazed  towards  the  Master's  platform  with 
an  unfaltering  eye,  though  his  brown  cheek  was  very  pale,  his  nether  lip 
shaken  by  an  involuntary  motion. 

« If  I  am  a  Traitor,  let  me  have  a  dog's  death !"  he  cried— 
«  That's  all !" 

"  Worthy  Master,  in  the  name  of  the  Grand  Lodge,  I  demand  from  you 
the  body  of  Gilbert  Morgan  ;  and  at  the  same  time  direct  you  to  cover* 
his  collar  and  his  robe  with  the  colors  of  mourning,  and  hang  them  on 
the  walls  of  the  Lodge,  so  that  all  the  brethren  may  know  that  he  no 
longer  lives,  but  has  gone  to  his  reward  !" 

«  I  obey.    It  shall*  be  done  !" 

And  as  the  Grand  Herald  descended  from  the  platform,  the  Worthy 
Master  led  Gilbert  toward  the  door,  and  paused  on  the  threshold.  At  a 
sign  from  the  Messenger  of  the  Grand  Lodge,  a  brother  bore  the  box  and 
the  rifle  over  the  floor,  and  placed  them  in  the  hands  of  the  Hunter. 

44  Into  your  hands  I  deliver  the  Traitor.  Work  your  will  upon  him, 
and  let  the  doom  which  he  merits  fall  upon  him  alone  ;  let  his  blood  be 
upon  his  own  head  !" 

There  was  something  very  impressive  in  the  scene.  Thrice  the 
brothers  waved  their  torches  to  and  fro,  thrice  they  bent  their  heads,  and 
thrice  repeated  the  stern  decree — 

44  Let  his  blood  be  upon  his  own  head  !" 

And  with  his  face  reddened  by  the  torch  glare,  Gilbert  stood  on  the 
threshold,  and  looked  for  the  last  time  over  the  familiar  array  of  his 
Lodge — saw  the  Brothers  of  his  own  degree  waving  their  lorches  with 
the  rest — heard  their  voices  mingle  in  his  death-chant. 

44  Come — I'm  ready — "  he  choked  down  the  agitation  which  was 
mounting  from  his  heart  to  his  throat,  and  turned  to  the  Grand  Herald, 
who  stood  beside  him,  pointing  th^  way  beyond  the  threshold  with  his 
extended  wand.  Into  the  darkness  they  went  forth  together;  the  door 
closed  behind  them,  and  the  Worthy  Master,  with  the  torch  flashing  over 
his  robes,  lifted  the  collar  and  the  robe  of  the  Doomed  Man  from  the  floor. 

"  Brother  Scribe,  you  will  strike  from  our  roll  the  name  of  the  Dead. 
Honorable  Herald,  you  will  cover  these  with  crape,  and  suspend  them 
behind  my  chair,  as  a  token  of  the  fate  of  the  lost  brother." 

It  was  done.  The  Scribe — who  sat  in  one  corner,  before  a  desk,  a 
dark  robe  flowing  round  his  form,  with  a  dagger  and  pen  emblazoned  in 
silver  on  the  sleeve,  erased  the  name  from  the  book,  which  lay  open  in 


110  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

the  glaring-  light.  Ere  a  moment  had  passed,  the  craped  collar  and  robe 
fluttered  from  the  hangings  behind  the  Eastern  Chair,  and  it  was  known 
to  all  the  brothers,  that  Gilbert  Morgan  was  dead,  from  that  hour. 

"  Now  let  the  Candidate  prepare  for  the  last  ordeal  !" 

This  strange  incident  had  not  failed  to  make  a  strong  impression  on  the 
sense  of  the  Candidate.  While  it  passed,  he  had  remained  standing  at 
the  foot  of  the  platform — gazing  in  mute  wonder  upon  every  point,  listen- 
ing to  every  word  of  the  scene — and  now,  with  his  face  manifesting  in 
every  line  a  pitiable  terror,  he  trembled  as  the  voice  of  the  Worthy 
Master  announced  the  Ordeal  of  Blood. 

— We  may,  in  future  pages  of  this  history,  describe  at  length  the  ap- 
pearance and  character  of  this  Candidate,  and  reveal  him  in  scenes  of  an- 
other and  far  different  nature. — 

"I  am  faint" — he  gasped,  as  the  knife  fell  from  his  unclosing  fingers  : 
"  Do  not — do  not — urge  me  farther.  This  scene  bewilders — it  is  too 
much"  

Covered  as  he  was  with  the  blood-red  sackcloth,  he  fell  insensible  to  the 
floor. 

How  long  he  remained  unconscious,  he  knew  not,  but  when  he  re- 
covered the  use  of  his  faculties,  the  dazzling  light  of  the  hundred  torches 
no  longer  illumined  the  hall.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  by  the  dim  lamp, 
which  swung  from  -the  high  ceiling,  beheld  the  floor  crowded  by  kneel- 
ing men,  who  bent  their  faces  on  their  clasped  hands.  An  unbroken  si- 
lence reigned.  On  his  platform  the  Master  knelt,  his  attitude  as  humble 
as  the  humblest  of  the  brethren.  The  other  officers  of  the  Lodge  were 
also  on  their  knees  ;  throughout  that  dimly  lighted  hall,  nothing  was  seen 
but  prostrate  forms,  heads  bowed,  and  hands  clasped  as  if  in  silent  Prayer. 

And  through  the  gloom,  the  symbols  of  the  order  gleamed,  with  a  faint 
and  tremulous  light. 

Suddenly — while  the  Candidate,  awed  to  the  soul,  was  watching  intent- 
ly for  the  slightest  gesture,  or  the  faintest  sound — a  flood  of  ruddy  light 
poured  through  an  open  doorway.  It  grew  more  vivid,  it  bathed  the 
room  in  sudden  splendor. 

And  on  the  threshold  appeared  two  figures,  in  robes  which  resembled 
shrouds,  slowly  advancing  with  a  measured'  step.  They  held  lighted 
torches  over  their  heads. 

As  they  passed  the  threshold  and  took  their  way  through  the  kneeling 
brethren,  two  forms  appeared  behind  them,  at  the  distance  of  some  three 
or  four  paces.  Clad  in  the  same  shroud-like  robes,  they  also  bore 
torches  above  their  heads. 

Slowly  the  four  advanced,  moving  with  the  same  measured  step, 
and  it  was  seen  that  they  bore  a  funeral  bier,  on  which  was  placed  a 
coffin  of  unpainted  pine  wood.  The  torch-light  glowing  over  their  shroud- 
like robes,  shone  in  painful  distinctness  upon  the  closed  lid  of  the  coffin. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


Ill 


They  came  slowly  on.  Still  the  brethren  knelt.  They  reached  the 
star  in  the  centre  of  the  floor.  Still  no  head  was  lifted  ;  not  a  hand  was 
unclasped.  They  placed  the  bier  upon  the  star,  and  stood  around  it, 
waving  their  torches  over  the  rude  coffin. 

The  scene  was  wild  and  spectral.  These  four  figures  clad  in  white, 
that  coffin  of  rough  pine  wood,  were  seen  in  the  centre  of  the  dazzling 
array  of  robes  and  symbols. 

The  figure  who  stood  at  the  head  of  the  coffin,  on  the  right,  suddenly 
lowered  his  torch,  and  dashed  it  against  the  closed  lid.  The  others,  one 
by  one,  imitated  his  action,  and  the  extinguished  torches  rested  upon  the 
lid  of  the  coffin. 

Through  the  gloom,  the  voice  of  the  first  figure  echoed,  like  a  knell— 
"  Worthy  Master  of  the  Rifle  Lodge,  No.  256,  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C,  into 
your  hands  I  deliver  the  dead  body  of  Gilbert  Morgan." 


CHAPTER  NINTH. 

THE  FATE   OF  GILBERT  MORGAN. 

It  may  not  be  altogether  without  interest,  for  us  to  follow  the  stout 
hunter  on  his  way,  and  behold  the  manner  of  his  Doom. 

"  Come  !  Follow  me  !"  said  the  voice  of  the  Grand  Herald,  speaking 
through  the  darkness  of  the  passage — "  We  ascend  these  stairs,  and  pass 
into  the  ante-room  of  the  GraiTd  Lodge." 

In  silence,  with  his  heart  chilled,  his  senses  bewildered  by.  this 
mysterious  incident,  Gilbert  followed  the  unknown  messenger.  They 
ascended  the  stairs,  and  through  a  doorway,  where  a  curtain  supplied  the 
place  of  oaken  panels,  passed  into  the  ante-room. 

It  was  a  small  apartment,  illumined  by  a  lamp,  which  stood  on  a  table 
covered  with  dark  cloth,  with  a  skull  and  an  unsheathed  sword  by  its 
side.  The  place  was  hung  with  dark  tapestry,  on  which  the  various 
symbols  of  the  order  were  emblazoned,  with  the  "  B.  H.  A.  C."  glitter- 
ing brightly  in  their  midst. 

A*  man  dressed  in  a  loose  garment  of  white  linen,  with  a  dark  mantle 
floating  from  the  shoulders,  confronted  the  Grand  Herald,  with  the  veil 
on  his  face  glowing  with  the  mystic  letters,  and  the  point  of  his  sword 
turned  to  the  uncovered  floor. 


112 


PAUL  ARDENHETM;  OR, 


"Pass  on,  Grand  Herald,"  he  said,  "  the  Grand  Sentinel  gives  thee 
free  passage  into  the  Hall  of  the  Grand  Lodge." 

Through  the  doorway — opposite  that  by  which  they  had  entered,  and, 
like  it,  with  a  curtain  in  the  place  of  a  door — Gilbert  and  the  Grand  He- 
rald silently  passed. 

In  a  circular  room,  hung  with  purple  tapestry,  and  lighted  by  candles, 
which  were  placed  on  four  separate  pedestals,  covered  with  white  cloth 
and  rising  at  intervals  from  the  polished  mahogany  floor,  the  Grand  Lodge 
of  the  Order  were  assembled. 

Gilbert,  led  by  the  Grand  Herald,  looked  from  side  to  side,  and  beheld 
some  twenty  men,  veiled  in  robes  of  dark  purple,  seated  in  a  circle, 
around  the  white  pedestals.  Their  faces  were  concealed  by  a  sort  of  cowl, 
made  of  scarlet  velvet,  and  glittering  with  golden  letters  and  symbols. 
Altogether,  the  effect  of  the  scene  was  very  impressive. 

Before  the  Hunter  arose  a  platform,  with  its  three  steps  covered  with 
dark  cloth.  In  a  chair,  adorned  with  cumbrous  carvings,  with  wide  arms, 
and  a  high  back,  surmounted  by  a  golden  crown,  sat  a  veiled  form,  clad 
in  a  flowing  robe  of  purple,  glittering,  from  the  shoulders  to  the  feet,  with 
vine  leaves,  stars,  a  dagger  and  a  skull,  and  other  symbols  of  the  Order. 

This  figure  wore  over  his  face  a  veil  of  white  lace,  which  permitted  his 
bronzed  features  to  be  dimly  seen  :  around  his  brow,  a  coronet  of  golden 
leaves  was  twined,  and  from  its. centre  waved  a  single  long  and  slender 
plume  of  raven  darkness. 

"  You  stand  before  the  '  Most  Venerable,  the  Grand  Master  of  the 
Grand  Lodge  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C  " 

The  Grand  Herald,  as  he  uttered  these  words,  laid  his  hand  on  the 
hunter's  shoulder,  and  whispered — "  Kneel  !  You  are  now  in  the  pre- 
sence of  your  Judge  !" 

In  the  centre  of  the  space,  bounded  by  the  four  pedestals,  the  Hunts- 
man knelt,  his  plain  hunting-shirt  strongly  contrasted  with  the  purple 
robes  of  the  encircling  figures,  his  rude  swnburnt  features  with  the  half- 
veiled  face  of  the  Grand  Master,  to  whom  his  gaze  was  turned.  By  his 
side,  in  the  white  robe  sprinkled  with  stars,  the  Herald  stood,  the  wand 
grasped  in  his  extended  hand. 

The  Hunter  looked  wonderingly  around,  while  the  sensation  of  mys- 
tery, and  the  terror  that  comes  from  mystery,  began  to  crowd  his  brain 
with  images  of  gloom  and  death. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken.  Like  lifeless  effigies,  those  figures  were 
grouped  around  ;  like  a  corse  placed  erect,  with  a  veil  over  its  frozen 
face,  the  Grand  Master  sat  on  his  throne,  the  lights  playing  warmly  over 
his  flowing  robe,  and  shining  on  each  brilliant  symbol. 

"  Have  you  no  word,  in  answer  to  our  charge  ?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  Grand  Master,  and  broke  with  a  sudden  em- 
phasis upon  the  Hunter's  ear.    He  could  not  answer  ;  the  mysterious 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  W1SSAHIKON.  113 

nature  of  the  summons  which  had  called  him  hither  ;  the  fear  which  had 
fallen  upon  the  faces  of  his  brethren,  as  they  heard  him  charged  with  the 
unpardonable  treason ;  the  anticipation  of  an  approaching  Doom,  which 
would  be  as  terrible  as  it  was  secret — all  rushed  upon  the  stout  Woodsman 
at  once,  and  held  him  dumb. 

"  Of  what  am  I  accused  ]"  he  faltered  at  last — "  Whar's  the  man  that 
dar'  say  it  ?" 

Even  as  he  knelt,  raising  his  clenched  hand,  while  the  arm  shook  with 
a  ceaseless  motion,  he  uttered  the  words  in  a  husky  voice,  and  with  his 
head  bent  forward,  awaited  an  answer. 

"  Deathsman  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C. — advance  !    Prepare  the  cord  !" 

Gilbert  did  not  see  the  form,  which,  advancing  from  the  circle,  stood  at 
his  back,  but  he  heard  the  footstep,  and  felt  that  his  Executioner  was 
at  hand. 

It  was  indeed  a  hideous  figure,  with  a  death's-head  mask  upon  his  face, 
the  fleshless  bones  of  a  skeleton  traced  upon  his  breast  and  limbs,  and  in 
his  hand,  covered  with  a  black  glove,  painted  in  resemblance  of  a  skele- 
ton hand,  he  bore  a  cord,  which,  wound  once  around  the  fingers,  dangled 
to  the  floor. 

"  Accuser  of  the  Guilty — advance  !'T  again  the  Grand  Master's  voice 
was  heard. 

And  in  front  of  Gilbert,  on  the  right,  appeared  a  man  veiled  in  a  shape- 
less robe,  black  as  midnight,  and  with  no  ornament  to  relieve  its  droop- 
ing cowl,  or  gloomy  folds. 

"  Speak,  Accuser,  what  is  the  Crime  of  the  Accused  ?" 

Without  lifting  the  cowl,  the  Accuser  spoke  ;  Gilbert  listening  all  tae 
while  with  trembling  earnestness. 

"  I  accuse  Gilbert  Morgan  of  the  violation  of  his  Oath  as  a  Brother  of 
our  Order.  I  accuse  him  of  betraying  his  sacred  trust,  as  a  Knight  of  the 
Scarlet  Degree  !" 

«  Accuse  me  ?  It's  a  lie— a  lie,  by  !"  shouted  Gilbert,  with  an  in- 
voluntary impulse  of  anger  and  profanity. 

Half-starting  from  the  floor,  he  flung  his  clenched  hand  toward  the 
Grand  Master,  while  the  pallor  of  his  face  vanished  before  a  flush  of  un- 
governable rage. 

"Accuse  me  o'  violatin'  my  oath  as  a  Brother,  my  trust  as  a  Knight? 
I  don't  keer  who  ses  it — I  fling  the  lie  in  his  teeth  !  And  I'll  prove  it  to 
his  face,  with  my  foot  upon  this  box,  this  rifle  in  my  hands  !" 

He  towered  in  the  midst  of  the  secret  band,  his  foot  upon  the  box,  his 
own  true  rifle  in  his  grasp.  There  was  a  look  of  defiance  on  his  brow,  a 
fearless  scorn  upon  his  lip. 

Yet  at  the  same  moment,  a  cord  was  thrown  over  his  head  ;  it  tightened 
round  his  neck  ;  he  felt  himself  dragged  rudely  backward,  and  sinking  on 
one  knee,  gasped  for  breath. 


114  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR 

"  Ah  !    By  !    This  is  a  coward's  trick — to  murder  a  man  like  a 

dog  !" 

Struggling  fiercely  while  that  cord  tightened  about  his  neck,  Gilbert 
rolled  his  head  from  side  to  side,  and  saw  the  point  of  an  unsheathed 
sword  glimmering  from  the  folds  of  every  robe.  The  Accuser  held  a 
pistol  to  his  throat,  a  grim  weapon,  huge  in  the  barrel,  with  a  stock  of 
heavy  mahogany  inlaid  with  silver.  At  the  same  instant,  the  Grand 
Herald  drew  a  dagger  from  beneath  his  white  garment,  and  stood  ready 
to  strike  its  keen  point  into  the  victim's  heart. 

"Let  me  know  my  crime — "  muttered  Gilbert,  every  word  rendered 
thick  and  gurgling  by  the  tightening  cord — "  If  I  have  violated  the  oath  of 
a  Free  Brother,  or  betrayed  the  trust  of  a  true  Knight,  let  me  know  it !" 

"  You  have  violated  your  oath  as  a  Brother,"  exclaimed  the  Grand 
Master,  starting  from  his  chair — "  At  your  initiation,  you  took  a  solemn 
obligation,  never  to  desert  the  Order ;  never  to  undertake  any  enterprise, 
much  less  enter  into  bonds  of  marriage,  without  the  Decree  of  the  Grand 
Lodge,  affirming  your  purpose.  To-night,  without  consulting  your  own 
Lodge,  or  the  Grand  Lodge,  you  resolved  to  enter  into  marriage  bonds 
with  Madeline,  the  orphan,  who  dwells  in  the  home  of  Peter  Dormer. 
You  resolved  to  desert  our  Order,  break  your  vows,  and  renounce  all 
allegiance  to  your  superiors — I  hold  the  Accusation  in  my  hand.  It  is 
signed  by  a  Brother  of  the  Knightly  Degree." 

Utterly  confounded  by  this  charge,  Gilbert  felt  the  rope  about  his  neck, 
saw  the  dagger  and  the  pistol  levelled  at  his  heart,  and  could  not  speak  a 
word  in  answer. 

"  More  than  this  — "  continued  the  Grand  Master,  as  he  stood  erect  on 
his  platform,  with  the  parchment  of  the  Accusation  in  his  hand;  "you 
have  perjured  yourself  in  another  point.  By  your  vow,  you  are  bound 
to  bring  at  once,  without  a  moment's  delay,  all  sums  of  money  in  your 
possession,  either  to  the  chest  of  your  own  Lodge — or,  in  case  the  sum 
is  beyond  an  hundred  doubloons — to  the  Treasury  of  the  Grand  Lodge. 
Have  you  done  this  ?  The  box  at  your  feet  contains  one  thousand  pieces 
of  gold.  You  know — nay,  you  dare  not  deny — that  it  was  your  intention 
to  appropriate  this  sum  to  your  own  purpose.  Appointed,  at  the  last 
meeting  of  your  Lodge,  to  secure  this  money, — appointed  by  your 
Lodge,  at  the  Decree  of  the  Grand  Lodge — you  have  violated  your  trust. 
And  in  proof  of  this  also,  I  hold  the  accusation  in  my  hand,  made  and 
signed  by  a  Brother  !" 

"  I  was  in  the  Lodge,  with  the  box  in  my  hand,  about  to  deliver  it, 
when — " 

The  words  were  interrupted  by  the  gradual  tightening  of  the  cord. 
Thrown  on  his  back,  Gilbert  lay  without  speech  or  motion,  his  face  dark- 
ening into  livid  purple,  his  eyes  protruding  and  blood-shotten. 

"  Brothers  of  the  Grand  Lodge— you  have  heard  the  Accusation,  made 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


115 


not  only  by  the  Venerable  Accuser,  but  affirmed  by  your  Grand  Master  ? 
What  is  your  Decree  ?" 

"  Guilty  !"  was  echoed  by  every  voice. 

"  Your  judgment  ?" 

And,  in  chorus,  they  uttered  the  formula  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C.  

"  Let  him  be  stripped  of  all  Regalia,  for  he  has  dishonored  that  Re- 
galia. Let  the  name  of  Brother  be  torn  from  his  heart,  for  he  has 
covered  that  name  with  infamy.  Let  him  be  put  under  the  Ban  of  the 
Order,  and  then  surrendered  to  the  vengeance  of  the  first  Brother  who 
may  encounter  him  ;  for  he  has  broken  his  vows,  and  severed  every  tie 
that  bound  him  to  our  protection  and  our  love." 

"The  Grand  Lodge  will  now  prepare  for  the  solemn  ceremony  of  the  Ban 
of  Excommunication,"  said  the  Grand  Master,  descending  from  his  platform. 

The  stout  hunter  uttered  an  involuntary  groan.  The  cord  grew 
tighter  ;  he  struggled  fiercely,  in  the  effort  to  free  himself  from  its  stifling 
coil,  but  the  hue  of  his  sunburnt  face  was  changed  to  livid  purple,  his  lips 
became  the  color  of  bluish  clay,  and  every  vein,  every  muscle  of  his 
visage  was  distorted  by  the  impulse  of  harrowing  physical  torture. 

'It  is — false — "  he  groaned,  and  then  all  became  a  blank — his  senses 
failed  him — there  seemed  a  blood-red  light  flashing  upon  his  starting  eye- 
balls— and  all  was  darkness. 

When  he  recovered  his  senses,  he  found  himself  standing  in  front  of 
the  Grand  Master's  platform,  supported  on  one  side  by  the  Deathsman, 
on  the  other  by  the  Accuser. 

A  pale  bluish  flame  shone  over  the  encircling  forms,  and  gave  their 
robes  a  spectral  and  unnatural  appearance.  That  flame  was  only  the 
combined  light  of  the  torches,  which  they  held  in  their  uplifted  arms. 

Before  the  hunter  was  a  large  vessel,  made  of  dark  wood,  and  encircled 
with  iron  hoops.    It  was  filled  with  a  red  liquid. 

And  as  the  Grand  Master. waved  his  hand,  the  Brethren  advanced 
between  the  hunter  and  the  Grand  Master,  and  plunged  their  lighted 
torches  into  the  vessel,  filled  with  the  red  liquid.  "  Thus—"  they  cried, 
as  torch  after  torch  was  extinguished — "  Thus  perish  the  soul  of  the 
False  Brother !" 

The  twenty  torches  were  plunged  into  the  wooden  vessel,  their  flames 
extinguished,  their  handles  projecting  from  the  red  liquid.  A  candle, 
held  by  the  Grand  Master,  shed  its  faint  light  over  the  scene,  and  dimly 
disclosed  the  circle  of  shrouded  forms,  with  the  half-naked  figure  of  the 
Hunter  in  the  centre. 

His  arms  were  pinioned  ;  the  cord  was  about  his  neck ;  but  half- 
aroused  from  a  deathlike  swoon,  his  senses  were  deadened  by  a  leaden 
apathy.  As  torch  after  torch  hissed  into  the  vessel,  and  flashed  with  a 
more  vivid  brightness,  as  it  sunk  in  darkness,  Gilbert  thought  he  was 
entangled  in  the  horrors  of  some  unutterable  dream. 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  The  False  Brother  is  degraded,"  said  the  voice  of  the  Accuser — "His 
name  has  been  inscribed  on  the  Book  of  Judgment;  he  has  been  laid 
under  the  irrevocable  Ban  of  the  Covenant !" 

"  Accursed — accursed,  forever  !"  the  words  broke  in  faint  whispers 
through  the  gloom. 

"  Then  do  I  give  him  over  to  the  Deathsman  of  our  Order.  Let  his 
death  be  secret ;  let  it  be  speedy,  so  that  his  form  may  no  longer  pollute 
the  earth,  and  shame  the  broad  canopy  of  heaven  with  the  sight  of  a 
Living  Traitor  !" 

Gilbert  felt  the  gripe  of  the  Deathsman  on  his  arm.  Without  a  word, 
he  suffered  himself  to  be  led  along  the  floor,  and  saw,  with  an  apathetic 
gaze,  the  shrouded  figures  kneeling  on  either  side. 

He  reached  the  curtained  wall,  and — while  the  Deathsman,  in  his 
hideous  mask,  with  the  form  of  a  skeleton  traced  upon  his  limbs — lifted 
the  candle,  and  extended  his  hand,  as  if  to  point  the  way,  he  heard  the 
voices  of  the  Brethren,  speaking  in  a  murmur — 

"  Farewell,"  they  whispered — "  Farewell  to  the  forsworn  and  fallen  !" 

The  hangings  were  lifted  by  the  Deathsman,  and  a  narrow  doorway 
appeared  in  the  light. 

His  arms  pinioned,  his  neck  encircled  by  the  cord,  Gilbert  passed 
under  the  raised  hangings,  and  in  an  instant  was  enveloped  in  thick  dark- 
ness. A  cloth  had  been  placed  on  his  forehead  ;  it  hung  over  his  eyes, 
and  shrouded  their  sight. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken,  but  he  felt  himself  dragged  onward,  along  a 
narrow  passage  ;  dragged  by  the  cord,  which  encircled  his  neck. 

The  bandage  was  removed  from  his  eyes.  It  was  some  time  before 
the  hunter  could  see  clearly  ;  but  when  he  recovered  the  use  of  his 
vision,  he  found  himself  in  a  small  room,  with  wainscotted  walls,  and  a 
cheerful  fire,  smoking  and  crackling,  on  an  open  hearth. 

A  table  of  unpainted  oak  stood  in  the  centre,  before  the  fire,  with  an 
arm-chair  at  either  end.  On  this  table  were  placed  a  bottle,  a  goblet  of' 
silver,  and  a  clay  pipe. 

Gilbert  could  scarce  believe  his  sight.  He  turned  from  the  ruddy 
blaze,  and  beheld  the  Deathsman  standing  by  his  side. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?"  he  asked — "  a  comfortable  fire,  a  bottle  o' 
wine,  a  cup,  and  a  pipe  o'  tobacco  !" 

"  It  means,  that  a  half-hour  of  life  is  still  permitted  to  you — "  said  the 
voice,  echoing  from  within  the  death's-head  mask.  "In  that  half-hour, 
you  are  allowed  the  warmth  of  the  fire,  the  cheerful  influence  of  tobacco 
and  wine.  Yet,  when  you  have  exhausted  the  pipe  and  the  bottle,  the 
hour  of  your  death  will  be  at  hand. — Until  that  moment  comes,  I 
leave  you." 

There  was  but  one  door  to  the  room.    It  was  opposite  the  fire. 


\ 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  117 

Gilbert  beheld  it  close,  as  the  Deathsman  passed  the  threshold,  and  heard 
the  key  turn  in  the  lock.  He  stood  for  a  moment,  gazing  about  him,  with 
a  bewildered  glance. 

"  Is  there  no  way  of  escape  ?"  he  muttered,  pacing  rapidly  around  the 
room,  and  feeling  every  panel  of  the  wainscot.  "  No  secret  passage  out 
o'  this  cursed  den  ?  Little  did  I  think,  some  years  ago,  when  first  I  was 
"nitiated  into  the  order,  and  took  the  oath  to  rob  and  murder,  for  the 
benefit  of  my  Lodge,  that  I'd  ever  be  caught  in  a  trap  like  this  !" 

There  was  no  way  of  escape  ;  the  panels  were  perfectly  smooth,  and 
firmly  jointed  into  each  other.  The  hunter  turned  to  the  fire,  and  started 
with  a  new  surprise.  A  coat  of  dark-green  velvet,  faced  with  gold,  was 
hung  over  the  arm-chair,  and  beneath  it  appeared  a  shirt  of  fine  linen, 
with  ruffled  collar  and  bosom,  and  a  waistcoat  of  bufl-colored  cloth, 
glittering  with  small  buttons  of  gold. 

"I'm  cold,"  he  laughed — and  shuddered  at  the  same  moment— for* 
even  in  his  merriment,  the  incalculable  Power  of  the  Secret  Order  awed 
his  iron  heart—"  An'  this  fine  gear  will  do  for  me,  jist  as  well  as  my 
hunting-shirt,  leather  belt,  and  powder-horn  !" 

It  was  not  long  ere  he  stood  in  front  of  the  hearth,  clad  in  the  green 
coat,  with  the  lace  ruffles  protruding  from  the  buflf  vest.  This  costume 
displayed  the  outlines  of  his  massive  figure  in  strong  relief,  and  its  bright 
colors  threw  his  sunburnt  features  boldly  into  the  light. 

He  flung  himself  in  the  chair,  filled  the  goblet,  and  lighted  the  clay 
pipe,  whose  long  stem  reached  from  his  lips  to  his  waist. 

"  Anybody,  to  see  me,  now,  'ud  think  I  was  a  gentleman  o'  fortin' 
takin'  my  ease,  and  carin'  a  cuss  for  nobody  !" 

He  drained  the  goblet,  and  the  smoke  of  the  pipe  floated  in  bluish 
wreaths  above  his  head.  , 

"  That  'ere  wine  goes  through  the  veins  like  melted  fire  !  Sich  tobacco 
as  this,  a  feller  don't  often  see  in  these  parts.  Cuba,  rale  Cuba,  from  the 
West  Ingies,  as  I'm  a  poor  miserable  Devil,  doomed  to  be  choked  out  o' 
life,  in  this  cut-throat  den  !" 

And  as  he  drank  and  smoked — the  warmth  of  the  fire  imparting  its  in- 
fluence to  his  chilled  limbs — he  became,  by  degrees,  cheerful  and  excited, 
and  then  a  leaden  drowsiness  sank  on  his  senses,  and  dulled  his  eyes 
and  ears. 

The  bowl  fell  from  his  hand,  and  lay  upturned  on  the  table ;  the  pipe 
was  shivered  into  fragments  at  his  feet.  After  all  that  he  had  endured, 
with  the  certainty  of  death  before  him,  the  hunter  sunk  into  a  dead 
slumber.  His  hands  were  crossed  upon  his  buff  waistcoat,  and,  with  his 
head  resting  against  the  back  of  the  chair,  his  mouth  wide  open,  he  slept 
the  dreamless  sleep  of  weariness  and  exhaustion. 

As  the  pipe  fell  from  his  hand,  the  door  opened  behind  him,  and  the 
Deathsman,  hideous  in  his  mask  and  skeleton  disguise,  once  more  appeared. 


1X8 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


CHAPTER  TENTH. 

THE  GOLDEN  SIGNET  AND  ITS  COUNTERPART. 

M  The  drug  has  done  its  work—"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  whose  joy- 
ous intonation  could  not  be  drowned,  even  by  his  mask — "The  fellow  has 
done  his  work.    We  have  used  him — he  shall  trouble  us  no  more  !" 

Scarce  had  he  spoken,  when  an  incident  occurred,  which  exercised  an 
important  influence  on  the  fate  of  the  doomed  hunter. 

At  the  back  of  the  Deathsman,  treading  at  his  very  heels,  appeared  a 
man,  whose  sharp  features  were  shadowed  by  a  three-cornered  hat,  while 
his  slender  limbs  were  clad  in  dark  attire,  made  after  the  fashion  of  the 
olden  time,  the  coat  with  its  skirts  drooping  to  his  knees,  the  vest  reach- 
ing far  below  the  waist,  and  the  ends  of  a  white  neckcloth  dangling  on 
the  breast. 

The  face  of  this  man— clad,  not  in  the  robes  and  symbols  of  the  secret 
order,  but  in  the  attire  of  a  plain  citizen — was  marked  by  a  long  hooked 
nose,  pinched  lips,  sharp  eyes,  and  high  cheek-bones.  It  was  dark- 
brown  in  complexion,  and  the  hair  which  straggled  from  beneath  his 
three-cornered  hat,  was  of  jetty  blackness,  with  here  and  there  a  lock  of 
silvery  whiteness. 

"  While  he  is  in  this  stupor,  we  will  have  him  conveyed  on  to  the 
City,  placed  on  shipboard,  and  then  ! — ho,  for  the  Coast  of  Africa,  and 
the  Slave  Trade.  Gilbert  Morgan  will  never  trouble  the  Wissahikon 
woods  again." 

A  smile  was  perceptible  on  the  sharp  features  of  the  stranger,  dressed 
in  black,  as  he  stole  softly  on  tip-toe  behind  the  Deathsman,  and  touched 
his  shoulder  with  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand. 

"  Tell  your  Grand  Master  that  I  wish  to  see  him,  and  have  a  few 
moments'  conversation  with  him,"  said  the  unknown,  while  the  smile 
deepened  over  his  face. 

"  Hey  ?  who  spoke  ?"  The  Deathsman  wheeled  suddenly,  and  saw 
the  slender  form  of  the  stranger — "  Who  are  you  ?" 

"  Will  you  convey  my  message  to  your  Grand  Master  ?"  And  taking 
a  handsome  snuff-box  from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  he  tapped  the  lid,  and 
conveyed  some  portion  of  its  contents  to  his  nose. 

The  hideous  mask  covered  the  face  of  the  Deathsman  ;  the  surprise, 
the  overwhelming  wonder  stamped  on  his  features,  was  not  visible,  but  as 
he  spoke  again,  the  intonation  of  his  voice — no  longer  deep  and  measured 
— but  harsh  and  hurried,  told  the  story  of  his  amazement.     "  And  who 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


119 


are  you  ?     You  dare  intrude  upon  the  councils  of  our  Order — you ! 
Know  you  not—" 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !    That  is  sufficient,"  said  the  gentleman,  smiling  all 
over  his  sharp  features — "  Convey  my  message,  and  let  the  Grand  Mas-  ^ 
ter  attend  me." 

The  unknown  crossed  his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  advanced  to  the 
hearth.  » 

For  a  moment  the  Deathsman  seemed  to  hesitate,  and  again  he  asked— 

"  Who  are  you  ?  Your  name,  your  business  here  ?  If  you  belong  to 
the  Grand  Lodge,  give  me  the  Word  and  the  sign — " 

"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing,  for  I  do  not  belong  to  the  Grand  Lodge.  I 
merely  wish  to  see  the  Grand  Master.  Is  that  not  plain  enough  ?  Can 
you  understand  me  now  ?" 

"  This  is  against  our  laws.  You — a  person  altogether  unknown- 
have  penetrated  into  this  house,  and  dared  to  spy  out  those  mysteries  in 
which  you  have  neither  part  nor  lot.  Without  regalia — without  one  sign 
to  indicate  Brotherhood  or  authority,  you  desire  to  see  the  Grand  Master. 
It  cannot  be — " 

The  Deathsman  stood,  resting  his  hand  on  the  chair  of  the  unconscious 
hunter,  with  the  light  playing  freely  over  his  grotesque  disguise,  and 
showing,  in  bold  relief,  the  contrast  between  it  and  the  plain,  dark  apparel 
of  the  unknown. 

"  It  can  be — "  the  slender  gentleman  wheeled  suddenly,  and  tapped  the 
lid  of  his  snuff-box — "It  must !" 

Then,  passing  before  the  slumbering  Gilbert,  he  seated  himself  in  the 
unoccupied  chair,  and  stretched  his  spare  limbs,  with  silver  buckles  on 
the  knees  and  shoes,  in  the  cheerful  glow  of  the  fire. 

The  Deathsman  retired  in  silence  ;  again  the  key  grated  in  the  lock. 

"  A  huge  fellow — brawny  form — a  vast  fund  of  nerve.  Something 
might  be  made  of  him.  That  forehead  tells  the  story  of  a  man  who  won't 
stand  upon  trifles,  or — once  aroused — be  held  back  by  scruples  of 
any  sort." 

Glancing  upon  the  brown  visage  of  the  sleeper,  the  unknown  very 
coolly  applied  himself  to  his  favorite  stimulant— the  dark  tobacco  dust — 
crossed  his  limbs  in  a  posture  of  great  complacency,  and,  placing  his 
thumbs  together,  seemed  to  be  altogether  at  home  in  this  mysterious 
chamber. 

The  key  grated  in  the  lock,  and  as  the  door  flew  open,  the  Grand 
Master  entered,  his  tall  and  somewhat  commanding  form  clad  in  the  pur- 
ple robe,  dazzling  with  embroidery,  the  white  veil  shadowing  his  bronzed 
features,  and  the  solitary  plume  waving  from  the  coronal  of  gold  leaves 
on  his  forehead. 

Advancing  one  step  from  the  threshold,  he  paused,  and  exclaimed,  in 
that  deep  tone,  evidently  assumed — 


120  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  Who  is  it  that  demands  audience  with  the  Grand  Master  of  the  B. 

h.  a.  a?" 

"A-h — you  have  come," — the  unknown  carelessly  turned  his  head 
over  his  shoulder — "  I  have  waited  for  you.  I  have  wailed.  Be  pleased 
#  to  close  the  door,  turn  the  key,  and  come  hither." 

The  Grand  Master  started  ;  his  eyes  flashed,  even  through  the  lace 
which  veiled  his  features.  For  an  instant  he  stood  as  if  completely  con- 
founded by  the  words  of  this  slender  gentleman,  whose  neat  black  attire, 
and  features — sharpened  as  by  the  systematic  attrition  of  traffic — indicated 
the  plain  citizen,  the  restless  merchant  of  the  large  city. 

However,  as  though  mastering  his  indignation  for  the  moment,  he 
quietly  closed  the  door,  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  approached  the 
unknown. 

"  Now,  sir,  I  will  hear  you.  After  I  have  heard — "  his  voice,  growing 
bold  and  harsh  with  anger,  was  interrupted  by  the  sharp  tones  of  the 
gentleman  in  dark  attire. 

"  After  you  have  heard,  you  will  obey.  That  is  plain,  sir.  Will  you 
permit  me  to  ask  you  a  question  ?" 

"  Speak  on." 

"  To  whom  does  the  Initiate  into  a  subordinate  Lodge  of  the  B.  H.  A. 
C.  swear  allegiance  ?" 

"  To  the  Honorable  Master  of  the  Lodge,  of  course.  Did  you  know 
any  thing  of  our  Order — " 

"  Bah  !  Enough  of  that  kind  of  talk.  Let  me  ask  you  another 
question.  To  whom  does  the  Honorable  Master  of  a  subordinate  Lodge 
of  the  B.  H.  A.  C,  swear  allegiance." 

"  To  the  Most  Venerable  Grand  Master  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C.  for  the 
Continent  of  America— to  me/" 

And  the  dazzling  robe  fluttered  with  the  impulse  of  the  broad  chest 
Which  swelled  beneath  it.  The  entire  appearance  of  this  personage,  clad 
in  kingly  robes,  and  standing  erect,  was  in  vivid  contrast  with  the  plain 
attire  and  careless  attitude  of  the  slender  gentleman. 

"And,  my  dear  friend — "  the  snuff-box  was  again  called  into  play — 
44  if  I  may  be  so  impertinent  as  to  press  the  subject — To  whom  does  the 
Right  Venerable,  the  Grand  Master  of  the  Order  for  the  Continent  of 
America,  swear  allegiance  ?" 

"  The  Most  Venerable,  you  mean — V 

"  No,  sir.  The  Right  Venerable.  *  Most'  does  not  belong  to  you — 
nor  to  your  office." 

The  Grand  Master  was  silent. 

"  You  seem  to  hesitate.  Is  not  the  question  easy  ?  You  remember 
the  last  act  of  your  installation  into  the  Grand  Master's  chair,  when  the 
box  or  casket  containing  the  Will  of  your  predecessor  was  placed  in 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  121 

your  hands,  sealed  with  the  Great  Seal  of  the  Order,  which  no  one  save 
the  Elect  Grand  Master  dare  touch  ?" 

"  True — there  was  an  obligation — a  charge — but  there  is  no  such  body 
in  existence  as  the  Supreme  Lodge  of  the  Order,  controlling  its  opera- 
tions throughout  the  World." 

There  was  a  strange  hesitation  in  the  manner,  a  perceptible  tremor  in 
the  voice  of  the  Grand  Master. 

"  Ah — ha  !  You  have  discovered  at  last,  that  there  is  such  a  body  as 
the  4  Supreme  Lodge'—"  the  sharp-featured  smiled  in  his  parched  lips 
and  small  black  eyes — "And  the  obligation  that  you  took,  invoking  upon 
your  head  the  vengeance  of  God,  the  tortures  of  Eternal  Death,  in  case 
you  broke  your  vow— do  you  remember  its  last  and  most  important 
word  ?" 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  fiercely  exclaimed  the  Grand  Master,  unconsciously 
echoing  the  question  which  the  Deathsman  had  asked — "  You  have 
dared  to  question  me,  and  I  have  tamely  answered.  Now,  it  is  my  turn 
to  question ;  yours  to  answer.  Unfold  at  once  your  name,  your 
mission  within  these  walls,  or,  at  a  sign  from  me,  the  members  of  the 
Order  will  throng  this  room,  and  mete  out  to  you  the  doom  of  the 

-spy-" 

He  raised  his  right  arm,  and  his  eyes  flashed  through  the  veil  with 
the  glare  of  ungovernable  rage. 

"  *And  in  case  I  refuse  at  any  time  to  obey  the  mandate  of  the  Supreme 
Lodge,  when  conveyed  to  me  in  ancient  form,  the  Brothers  of  the  Order 
shall  be  absolved  from  all  allegiance  to  me ;  the  Lodges  on  this  Continent 
are  from  that  moment  empowered  by  the  sacred  customs  of  the  B.  H.  A. 
C,  to  disown  my  sway,  dishonor  my  name,  and  hunt  me  to  the  death, 
under  the  irrevocable  ban.'  " 

As  he  repeated  these  words,  in  a  slow  and  measured  tone,  the  gentle- 
man dressed  in  black  arose,  and  passing  before  the  sleeping  hunter,  con- 
fronted the  Grand  Master. 

"  This  is  the  last  word  of  the  Obligation  which  you  took  over  the 
dead  body  of  your  Predecessor.    Do  you  remember  it  now  ?" 

It  was  a  singular  thing  to  see  the  change  which  came  over  the  gor- 
geously arrayed  Grand  Master,  as  this  plainly  attired  man  uttered  these 
words.  He  was  silent ;  he  tottered,  and  only  saved  himself  from  falling 
by  placing  his  hand  upon  the  back  of  Gilbert's  chair. 

"  •  And  I  will  recognise  the  Messenger  of  the  Supreme  Lodge,  when- 
ever he  appears  holding  in  his  hand  the  counterpart  of  the  golden  signet, 
which  I  wear  on  my  heart  as  the  emblem  of  my  authority,  and  also  as 
the  Great  Seal  of  the  Grand  Lodge  '  " 

Extending  his  hand,  the  unknown  grasped  the  golden  medal,  or,  to 
describe  it  more  properly,  the  Great  Seal,  which,  supported  by  a  heavy  chain 
— also  of  gold — shone  on  the  Grand  Master's  breast. 


122  '   PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  You  behold  the  figures  on  this  medal,  which — when  it  is  impressed 
upon  the  melted  wax — appear  in  tfye  distinct  shape  of  King  Solomon  on 
his  throne,  with  the  Temple  in  the  distance,  and  Hebrew  and  Arabic 
characters,  traced  on  the  Mosaic  floor  at  his  feet  ?  Now  look  upon  the 
counterpart  of  this  signet." 

He  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  Grand  Master  a  small  casket  of  dark 
wood,  the  lid  of  which  flew  open  at  his  touch. 

"  Hah  !"  ejaculated  the  Grand  Master,  as  he  beheld  the  medal  which 
the  casket  contained — "  It  is  indeed  very  like  the  signet—" 

"  Like  ?  It  is  the  same,  only  on  your  medal  the  figures  are  sunken  ; 
here  they  are  raised.    Do  you  want  further  proof?" 

He  took  the  medal  of  the  Grand  Master,  and  placed  his  own  upon  it. 
The  raised  figures  on  the  one,  fitted  into  the  sunken  spaces  on  the  other, 
with  so  much  exactness,  that  the  two  seemed  but  one  piece  of  solid  gold. 

"  What  do  you  demand  ?" — the  voice  of  the  Grand  Master  was  changed 
from  its  late  fiery  and  indignant  tones.  "  I  must  confess  that  it  appears 
to  me,  that  this  may  be  only  an  imposition  1  never  heard  of  the  Su- 
preme Lodge  as  a  body  in  actual  existence  " 

"  You  thought,  my  good  sir,  that  it  was  only  a  masonic  expression 
for  the  Power  of  the  Almighty,  and,  governed  by  this  thought,  have  as- 
sumed titles  and  privileges  which  do  not  belong  to  you — have  in  fact  in- 
vaded the  Prerogative  of  the  Supreme  Lodge,  and  usurped  its  functions  !" 

The  gentleman  in  dark  attire  placed  the  casket  within  his  waistcoat, 
and  again  supplied  his  nostrils  with  tobacco  dust,  as  he  remarked — 

"  Right  Venerable  Grand  Master,  you  will  take  one  arm  of  this  insensi- 
ble man,  and  assist  me  to  convey  him  into  the  presence  of  the  Supreme 
Lodge—" 

"  But  the  Grand  Lodge  await  my  return.  The  Brothers  will  think 
strangely  of  my  absence — " 

"  They  will  have  to  continue  thinking  strangely,  for  a  great  while," 
said  the  dark  gentleman,  with  an  ominous  smile.  "  Was  it  not  enough, 
sir,  that  you  held  in  your  grasp  the  revenues  and  power  of  the  Order  ? 
At  your  word,  a  thousand  men — all  bold  and  unscrupulous,  and  fitted  by 
desperation  for  any  deed — started  into  action,  on  every  part  of  the  Con- 
tinent of  America.  At  your  mandate,  the  ocean  was  whitened  by  the 
sails  of  at  least  five  hundred  ships,  whose  dark  flags  bore  the  same  skull 
and  crossbones  with  the  dagger  and  the  motto  of  the  order.  You  had 
only  to  speak,  and  lo  !  in  any  of  the  cities  of  the  North  or  South,  your 
bidding  was  done— property  and  life  became,  through  the  ten  thousand 
hands  of  the  Order,  your  easy  prey.  But  this  it  seems  was  not  enough. 
Not  enough  to  hold  a  power,  which,  striking  from  the  dark — deemed 
fabulous  by  the  great  mass  —  rivalled,  in  its  certainty  of  action,  the  sway 
of  an  absolute  Monarch,  and,  at  the  same  time,  was  secured  from  all 
danger,  all  responsibility,  by  the  cloud  of  an  impenetrable  mysterv.  Not 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  123 

enough  to  dwell  in  a  splendid  mansion,  in  the  great  city,  and  be  caressed 
by  the  rich  and  aristocratic,  while  every  Minion  of  the  Crown  thought  it 
but  a  proper  reverence  for  '  high  birth  and  great  property'  to  do  you  es- 
pecial honor.  This  did  not  satisfy  your  ambition.  You  aimed  at  the 
supreme  power — ay,  sir,  only  this  night,  laid  your  plans  to  convey  into 
your  own  hands  the  thousand  doubloons,  which  were  ordered  to  bt 
secured  for  the  use  of  the  Supreme  Lodge." 

Even  beneath  his  royal  robe,  the  Grand  Master  trembled  like  a  reed  in 
the  blast.  • 

"  You  know  my  name — "  he  faltered. 

The  slender  man  tapped  the  lid  of  his  snuff-box,  and,  with  a  deep  bow, 
offered  its  contents  to  the  Grand  Master — 

"  Will  you  take  the  arm  of  this  insensible  man  ?" 

It  was  done.  They  raised  the  sleeping  man  from  the  chair,  and,  sup- 
porting his  unconscious  form  between  them,  departed  from  the  room.  As 
they  passed  the  threshold,  the  gentleman  in  black  whispered  pleasantly 
to  the  Grand  Master — 

"  You  do  not  know  all  the  secrets  of  this  old  house.  You  doubtless 
thought  that  all  its  rooms  were  occupied  by  your  subordinates,  and  quite 
forgot  the  fact,  that  the  second  story  of  the  back  part  of  this  mansion 
communicates  with  the  steep  hill  on  the  north,  by  a  door  and  a  passage 
not  ten  feet  from  where  we  stand.  Do  you  believe  in  the  Supreme 
Lodge  now  ?" 

They  passed  the  threshold,  and,  instead  of  descending  the  stairs  into  the 
room  of  the  Grand  Lodge,  traversed  the  corridor  in  an  opposite  direction. 
Presently,  as  he  grasped  the  body  of  the  unconscious  hunter  with  his 
muscular  right  arm,  the  Grand  Master  heard  a  key  turn  in  a  lock. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  whisper  of  the  unknown  thrilled  on  his  ear, 
even  through  the  darkness  : 

"  Let  us  enter.  This  passage  leads  us  into  the  bosom  of  the  hill,  at 
the  back  of  the  mansion." 

Scarcely  had  the  Grand  Master  and  the  unknown,  bearing  the  form  of 
Gilbert,  left  the  small  apartment,  warmed  by  the  cheerful  wood  fire,  and 
lighted  by  the  candle  on  the  table,  when  a  figure  crossed  its  threshold, 
and  the  Deathsman  appeared  once  more. 

"  Strange  !  The  Grand  Master  not  here,  and  the  Traitor  also  gone  !" 
he  ejaculated,  as  he  surveyed  the  vacant  apartment.  "  Who  can  it  be, 
that  so  boldly  desired  an  audience  with  him  ?" 

He  left  the  room  with  a  hurried  step,  and  in  a  few  moments  reap- 
peared,  with  the  Grand  Herald  by  his  side. 

"  This  is  indeed  singular,"  said  that  personage,  as  his  white  robe,  daz- 
zling with  stars,  glittered  in  the  light — "  Gone,  did  you  say  ?   The  Grand 


124 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


Master,  the  doomed  and  the  unknown  ?  Have  you  no  traces  ?  By  what 
means  could  they  have  obtained  egress  from  the  house  ?" 

To  this  hurried  question,  which  he  propounded  without  raising  the  veil 
from  his  face,  there  was  no  answer.  These  two  ministers  of  the  Grand 
Organization  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C.  left  the  apartment,  and  descended  into 
the  Hall  of  the  Grand  Lodge  together. 

Day  was  breaking  without  the  desolate  mansion ;  and  in  the  hall,  the 
candles  standing  on  the  pedestals,  were  burning  fast  toward  their 
sockets. 

Still  seated  in  a  circle,  their  purple  robes  glowing  in  the  wavering  light, 
the  Brothers  of  the  Grand  Lodge  awaited  the  return  of  their  Chief.  His 
platform  was  vacant ;  the  Grand  Herald,  leaning  on  his  wand,  stood  near 
its  foot,  and  by  his  side,  the  Deathsman.  Through  the  masks  which 
covered  their  faces,  they  gazed  over  the  forms  of  the  brethren,  who  con- 
•  versed  in  whispers  ;  their  all-absorbing  topic,  the  unaccountable  disap- 
pearance of  the  Great  Head  of  the  Lodge. 

"  It  cannot  be  done — "  whispered  the  Deathsman — "  It  is  against  all 
custom,  for  even  a  Right  Venerable  Warden  to  adjourn  the  Grand  Lodge. 
It  cannot  be  done  without  the  presence  of  our  Chief." 

"  Yet,  what  else  can  we  do  ?"  interposed  the  Grand  Herald — "Our 
chief,  who  opened  this  session,  is  absent.  It  is  near  daybreak,  and  we 
do  not  wish  to  be  seen  leaving  this  house  in  the  broad  light  of  morning. 
Brethren,"  he  cried  aloud,  "  in  the  absence  of  the  Grand  Master,  I 
would  suggest  that  the  Grand  Warden  be  empowered  to  close  this 
session — " 

The  sentence  was  never  completed.  For,  as  the  lights  were  burning  in 
the  sockets,  the  hangings  opposite  the  platform  were  raised,  and  a 
murmur  of  surprise  broke  the  stillness — 

"  The  Grand  Master  !    At  last  he  has  come — " 

The  Grand  Master,  clad  in  the  robes  of  his  office,  strode  slowly,  and 
with  a  measured  step,  through  the  ranks  of  his  brethren.  As  he  ascended 
the  platform,  it  might  be  seen  that  the  golden  signet  was  still  suspended 
from  his  neck,  while  his  bronzed  features  were  covered  by  the  veil. 

"  Brothers  of  the  Grand  Lodge—"  he  began,  but  paused— as  four  veiled 
figures,  bearing  a  coffin,  crossed  the  threshold  and  advanced  toward  the 
platform.  Every  member  could  not  fail  to  observe  that  the  voice  of  the 
Grand  Master  was  strangely  changed,  as  he  continued : 

"  Behold  the  corse  of  Gilbert  Morgan,  who  was  executed  in  my  pre- 
sence by  the  Ministers  of  the  Supreme  Lodge  !" 


The  effect  of  his  words  upon  the  members  of  the  Order,  was  not  dis- 
cernible, for  as  he  spoke,  the  lights,  flickering  for  the  last  time,  went  out  in 


the  monk:  of  the  wissajhikon.  125 

darkness,  and,  amid  the  whispers  which  echoed  from  every  side,  only- 
three  words  were  audible — "  The  Supreme  Lodge  !" 

The  Grand  Master  had  been  gone  for  the  space  of  three — perchance 
four  hours. 

Shall  we  lift  the  curtain  from  the  councils  of  the  Supreme  Lodge,  and 
reveal  the  history  of  those  hours  ? 


CHAPTER  ELEVENTH. 

THE  SUPREME  LODGE. 

We  now  return  to  the  moment  when  the  Grand  Master  heard  the  Un- 
known whisper — 

44  This  passage  leads  us  into  the  bosom  of  the  hill." 

He  also  heard  the  door  close  behind  him,  and  felt  the  form  of  Gilbert 
press  heavily  upon  him.  All  was  dark,  but  he  was  conscious  that  the 
passage  which  they  traversed  was  narrow,  the  atmosphere  dense,  the 
ceiling  but  an  inch  or  two  higher  than  the  top  of  his  plume. 

Urged  repeatedly  by  the  unknown,  to  be  careful  of  the  form  of  Gilbert, 
to  grasp  him  firmly,  and  by  no  means  loosen  his  hold,  even  for  an  in- 
stant, the  Grand  Master  counted  twenty  paces,  when  his  course  was 
suddenly  ended. 

"  You  will  enter  the  room  on  the  right,  and  await  my  coming.'* 

The  Grand  Master  extended  his  hand,  and  felt  the  panels  of  a  door.  It 
opened,  and,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  closed  again. 

It  was  a  cell-like  apartment,  with  ceiling,  wall  and  floor  of  roughly 
plastered  stone.  In  the  centre,  on  an  old  chest,  a  small  lamp  was  placed. 
It  was  evident,  at  first  sight,  that  this  room,  resembling  a  grave-vault,  was 
sunken  in  the  bosom  of  the  hill,  which  ascended  precipitously  in  the 
rear  of  the  old  house. 

Seating  himself  on  a  chest,  the  Grand  Master  gathered  his  robes  about 
him — for  the  air  was  chill  and  damp — and,  with  an  ejaculation  of  wonder, 
surveyed  the  cell. 

He  had  heard  of  the  wealth  of  the  Order,  had,  indeed,  been  intrusted 
with  the  control  of  a  great  portion  of  that  wealth,  but  this  room  displayed 
a  sight,  which  exceeded  the  bounds  of  all  reasonable  credibility. 

The  floor  was  covered  with  chests  of  every  shape  and  form.  Some 


126 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


were  open,  others  closed ;  here  they  were  thrown  together  in  a  confused 
pile,  and  again — massy  and  iron-bound — they  stood  apart.  The  unclosed 
chests  were  stored  with  gold  and  silver  coins  of  every  mould  and  form, 
from  the  uncouth  Chinese  money,  to  the  round  and  substantial  Spanish 
doubloon. 

On  the  closed  lids  were  scattered  stores  of  gold  and  silver  plate  ;  and 
from  the  aperture  of  the  half-opened  chests,  projected  cloths,  velvets  and 
laces,  of  the  richest  texture  and  most  costly  dyes.  It  seemed  as  though 
every  part  of  the  world  had  sent  its  tribute  to  swell  the  countless  wealth 
of  this  narrow  cell.  Wherever  the  Grand  Master  turned,  he  saw  nothing 
but  gold  and  silver  coin,  cloths  of  every  pattern  and  hue,  plate  of  the 
most  precious  metals,  worthy  to  grace  the  board  of  a  crowned.  Despot. 

"  The  treasury  of  the  Supreme  Lodge  !"  he  exclaimed,  and,  raising  a 
heavy  goblet — with  the  veil  still  drooping  over  his  face— he  examined 
the  delicate  sculpturing  which  adorned  the  narrow  stem  and  capacious 
bowl. 

"  Will  no  one  wake  me  up  from  this  dev'lish  dream  ?" 

Gilbert  unclosed  his  eyes,  and  found  himself  encircled  by  a  scene, 
whose  unearthly  solemnity  resembled  the  vague  spirit-pictures  of  a 
dream. 

A  lamp  hung  from  the  dome-like  ceiling  of  a  narrow  cell,  and  shed  its 
faint  light  before  his  eyes.  The  corners  of  the  cell  were  dark  ;  the  light 
only  served  to  reveal  the  brown  visage  of  the  Hunter,  who,  clad  in  the 
coat  of  green  velvet,  faced  with  gold,  looked  about  him,  in  blank  wonder. 

Before  him  was  a  circular  table,  on  which  a  book,  huge  in  size,  bound 
in  white  parchment,  was  placed.  Its  golden  clasps  glimmered  in  the  light. 

Around  this  table,  three  figures  attired  in  gowns,  with  cowls,  resem- 
bling the  monkish  robes  of  the  Old  World,  were  seated  in  arm-chairs  of 
unpainted  oak.  The  figure,  seated,  directly  opposite  where  the  Hunter 
stood,  rested  a  small  white  hand  upon  this  large  volume. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  the  hunter  could  recover  his  wandering 
senses ;  he  remained  standing  before  the  table  for  the  space  of  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  and  in  this  time,  not  a  word  was  spoken  ;  the  three  figures 
were  motionless  as  stone. 

Gilbert  advanced  a  step,  determined  to  touch  the  extended  hand,  and 
assure  himself  that  it  was  but  a  hand  of  wax  or  marble,  not  the  hand  of  a 
living  man.  Yet,  as  he  advanced,  the  hand  was  slowly  lifted  ;  he  fell 
back  into  his  original  position,  crossing  his  arms,  while  his  features  as- 
sumed an  expression  of  sullen  determination. 

"  Gilbert  Morgan — "  said  a  voice,  somewhat  remarkable  for  the  soft- 
ness and  music  of  its  intonation — "  Condemned  to  death  by  a  power  that 
you  cannot  see,  about  to  be  stricken  by  the  hand  which  strikes  from  the 
darkness,  a  chance  of  life  is  offered  unto  you.    Will  you  accept  it  ?" 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


J  2? 


It  was  the  central  figure  that  spoke,  with  his  white  hand  resting  on  the 
cover  of  the  book  all  the  while. 

The  reply  of  the  Hunter  was  characteristic  : 

"  I'll  accept  most  anythin' — do  most  everythin' — only  get  me  out  of 
this  wolf- trap." 

"  Not  only  life,  but  wealth  and  power  are  offered  to  you.  The  wealth, 
the  power  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C.  are  within  your  grasp.  We  have  selected 
you  as  the  Candidate  for  Initiation  into  the  Degree  of  Grand  Master  of 
the  Order 

"  Initiation!"  echoed  Gilbert.  "Ain't  the  Grand  Master  elected  by 
the  Grand  Lodge  ?  Who  are  you,  that  trap  a  man  in  this  'ere  way— drag 
him  from  scene  to  scene— pen  him  up  with  three  unknown  men,  dressed 
in  black,  in  a  grave-vault,  like  this  ?" 

Without  seeming  to  take  notice  of  his  words,  or  of  the  flushed  cheek 
and  indignant  glance  which  accompanied  their  utterance,  the  central 
figure  continued : 

"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  an  election,  or  the  power  to  elect  in  our 
Order.  The  Honorable  Master  is  designated  by  the  Grand  Master ;  in 
his  turn  the  Grand  Master  is  designated  by  a  higher  authority,  whose  ex- 
istence is  unknown  to  the  rest  of  the  brethren.  That  higher  authority,  is 
the  Supreme  Lodge.  Its  chief  is  known,  not  as  Supreme  Master,  but  as 
the  Invisible  Head  of  the  Order.    You  stand  in  his  presence  now." 

"Grand  Master  !"  muttered  Gilbert — "That  were  a  prize  indeed,  for 
one  like  me  !    Why,  I  kin  hardly  sign  my  name — " 

"  You  will  never  need  to  sign  your  name.  The  signet  will  bear  wit- 
ness of  your  authority.  The  man  who  becomes  Grand  Master,  must  be 
known  to  the  world,  only  as  the  dead  are  known.  From  this  hour,  the 
name  of  Gilbert  Morgan  will  only  be  pronounced  as  the  name  of  a  dead 
man.  Again  I  ask  you,  are  you  willing  to  pass  from  the  edge  of  the 
grave  which  yawns  beneath  you  to  the  Grand  Master's  chair  ?" 

Like  a  flood  of  light,  pouring  suddenly  over  a  mass  of  dark  clouds,  a 
multitude  of  thoughts  and  memories  rushed  through  the  hunter's  brain. 
He  was  a  rude  man — rude  in  speech,  bold  in  deed — but  his  forehead  in- 
dicated a  mind  of  great  and  peculiar  natural  power.  Utterly  uneducated, 
there  lurked  in  the  recesses  of  his  nature — like  sparks  among  the  ashes— 
the  elements  of  a  wide  and  grasping  ambition.  His  eye  grew  brighter 
as  he  heard  the  words  of  the  figure,  who  called  himself  the  Invisible  ;  his 
clenched  hand  was  pressed  upon  his  forehead. 

"  Grand  Master  !  You  don't  mean  to  say,  that  I,  a  rough  backwoods- 
man o'  the  Wissahikon,  can  become  that  ar'  !  I — I — sit  on  the  throne, 
and,  with  a  word,  manage  the  Lodges  of  Canada,  the  New  England  Pro- 
vinces, New  York,  Pennsilvany,  and  all  the  South  ?  Gentlemen,  it's  not 
kind  of  you,  to  make  fun  of  a  dyin'  man — " 


128  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR* 

"  I  have  said  it,  and  it  can  be  done  !  I  swear  it,  by  the  Seven  Watch- 
ers of  the  Holy  Temple  !" 

"  Show  me  the  way,"  cried  Gilbert — "  Name  the  manner  o'  th'  Initia- 
tion." 

"  Listen,  and  in  silence.  I  will  read  to  you  the  preparatory  Lesson  of 
the  Grand  Master's  degree."  —  The  Invisible  unclosed  the  Book:  with  his 
white  hand  laid  on  the  parchment  page,  inscribed  with  the  characters  of 
an  unknown  tongue,  he  continued  :  "  This  is  the  great  Book  of  the 
Covenant,  written  in  a  tongue,  known  only  to  the  Elect  of  the  Supreme 
Lodge,  and  intelligible  to  them,  whatsoever  their  country  or  language. 
This  Book  was  written  thousands  of  years  ago,  and  bears  witness  of  the 
Covenant  made  by  the  Great  Being  in  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem  with 
the  millions  of  mankind,  in  the  day  of  Solomon.  That  Covenant — as  you 
are  well  aware,  having  been  initiated  in  the  Knightly  degree — was  in  these 
words  :  As  long  as  the  sun  shineth  by  day,  and  the  stars  give  light  by 
night,  so  long  ivill  I,  the  Jehovah,  listen  to  the  cry  of  my  people  the 
Poor,  redress  their  wrongs,  and  scatter  the  bolts  of  my  vengeance  upon  the 
forehead  of  the  oppressor. — Solomon  betrayed  the  Covenant,  and  died 
under  the  Ban  of  the  Order,  the  Curse  of  his  God.  Even  his  countless 
wealth,  his  superhuman  intellect,  could  not  save  him  from  the  Traitor's 
doom  ! 

"  Yet  I  must  impart  to  you  the  preparatory  lesson,  or  the  Degree  of 
High  Priest,  otherwise  termed  the  Grand  Master's  degree — " 

" '  The  Brother  that  would  take  upon  himself  the  great  work  of  a  High 
Priest,  must  cut  loose  from  his  heart  every  tie  of  friendship  or  love.  He 
must  have  no  friend;  he  must  love  only  the  Brotherhood  over  which  he 
desires  to  rule.  And  in  order  that  an  unworthy  person  may  not  obtain  this 
great  office,  it  is  decreed  that  the  Candidate  for  Initiation  shall  pass 
through  a  certain  ordeal,  the  manner  and  form  of  which  is  left  to  the  will 
of  the  Invisible  Head,  while  its  certain  tendency  must  always  be,  to  sever 
the  heart,  by  an  irrevocable  blow,  from  all  ties  of  friendship  or  love,  and 
devote  it  forever  to  the  Brotherhood. 

"  Are  you  ready  for  an  Ordeal  of  this  kind,  however  terrible  ?" 

"I  am  !" 

«  Are  you  willing  that  your  name  shall  never  be  heard  on  earth  again 
as  the  name  of  a  living  man  ?" 
u  Yes — willing  even  for  that  !" 

«  Will  you  consent  to  enter  at  once  upon  the  Ordeal,  or  trial,  which 
shall  qualify  you  for  the  duties  of  your  great  office  ?" 

i  I  consent !    You  can't  name  the  thing  that  I'm  afeerd  to  do!" 

The  Invisible  Head  closed  the  volume,  and  rested  his  hand  again  upon 
its  clasped  lid. 

He  seemed  gazing,  from  the  shadow  of  his  cowl,  upon  the  face  of  the 
hunter,  while  a  dead  silence  fell  upon  the  gloomy  chamber.    Gilbert,  in 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAfllKON. 


129 


his  green  and  gold  attire,  stood  before  the  table,  his  arms  still  crossed,  his 
brown  features  still  compressed  by  an  expression  of  unshaken  resolution. 

"Madeline .'" — the  word  came  from  the  lips  of  the  Invisible. 

The  Hunter  started,  but  did  not  utter  a  word,  though  the  name  thrilled 
like  electric  fire  through  his  veins. 

"  At  this  moment,  while  you  stand  before  me,  she  struggles  in  the  em- 
brace of  her — Seducer  !  You,  the  Plighted  Husband,  stand  before  the 
Supreme  Lodge  of  the  B.  H.  A.  C,  and  not  one  mile  from  the  spot, 
Madeline,  your  Sworn  Wife,  yields  to  her  Unknown  Lover." 

Gilbert  did  not  speak,  but — shaken  by  an  agony  that  he  fiercely 
endeavored  to  master — raised  his  clenched  hands  to  his  forehead. 

m  Can  you  hear  this  without  a  murmur  1  Can  you  think  of  your  wife 
returning  the  kisses  of  a  man  unknown  to  her,  and  on  your  wedding 
night,  and  not  groan  ?  Then  have  you  the  heart  to  become  our  Minister; 
then  have  you  the  iron  nerve,  requisite  for  a  Grand  Master  !" 

"  Go  on  — "  said  Gilbert,  as  his  brown  face  was  deformed  by  swollen 
veins — "  You  see  I  don't  flinch.  I  can  bear  even  that !  Mad'lin'  in  the 
arms  of — her  lover.  Yes,  even  that.  If  this  is  your  trial,  I'm  through 
it  already.    Go  on — the  end  of  all  this  ?" 

"  Let  it  be  spoken  in  few  words.  If  you  are  the  man  we  seek,  if  you 
are  willing  to  test  your  truth,  your  nerve,  by  a  trial  that  will  bind  you  to  the 
Order,  and  bind  the  Order  to  you,  at  once  and  forever,  then  take  this  knife — " 

"  Well — I  see  the  knife — go  on  !" 

Take  the  knife,  seek  the  chamber  of  your  plighted  wife,  even  as  she 
clings  to  her  lover — and — " 

"Strike  it  to  his  heart?"  shrieked  Gilbert,  with  a  wild  burst  of 
laughter — "  That  is  not  hard  to  do." 

"  True ;  that  would,  indeed,  be  an  action  without  difficulty  or  danger. 
Such  a  deed,  the  Invisible  does  not  demand  from  you.  You  plunge  your 
steel  into  the  Seducer's  heart,  and  are  avenged.  What  self-denial,  what 
high  purpose  is  exhibited  in  this  ?  None  !  A  mere  brutal  revenge,  a 
cowardly  murder  ;  nothing  more.  But  to  punish,  not  the  seducer,  but  the 
partner  in  his  act  of  shame ;  to  strike,  not  the  man  whom  you  hate,  but 

the  woman  whom  you  love,  but  who  has  so  terribly  wronged  you  

this  demands  a  soul  above  all  common  thoughts,  an  iron  nerve,  a  heart 
unyielding  as  the  grave — " 

"  Mad'lin'  !"  shrieked  Gilbert,  as  the  blood  congealed  in  his  veins — 
"  Strike  Mad'lin'  !    Strike  the  girl— who  only— to  night — " 

The  words  fell  in  broken  accents  ;  he  could  not  go  on.  As  though 
some  spell  had  suddenly  darkened  his  reason,  he  stood  before  the  Invisi- 
ble Head,  pressing  his  hands  to  his  forehead,  and  muttering  in  gasps— 
"  Mad'lin'  !    Mad'lin'  !" 

And  m  answer,  was  heard  the  musical  voice  of  the  Invisible — 

i 

"  Even  now  this  girl,  whom  you  so  madly  love,  returns  his  kisses. 

9 


130  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

Yes,  she  suffers  him  to  wind  his  arms  about  her  neck,  and  twine  his 
fingers  in  her  flowing  hair.  At  this  moment,  her  eyes  hazy,  her  bosom 
full  with  passion,  she  trembles  at  his  touch,  and  whispers, '  Gilbert  I  could 
not  love,  but  thou  hast  won  me  to  be  thine — thine  forever  !'  " 

"  Mad'lin'  !  Strike  her — the  girl  who  never  harmed  a  livin'  thing,  and 
wished  good  to  all  the  world.  Stab  her  for  the  villany  of  this  Devil  in 
human  shape — " 

"  Go,  miserable  man,  go  to  her  chamber,  in  the  Farm-House,  not  one 
mile  from  this  hall.  Look  through  the  window :  you  can  climb  the 
chesnut  tree,  and  see  all  that  passes  in  her  room.  Go — see  her  pant  and 
swell  as  her  moist  eyes  are  fixed  upon  her  lover's  face  ;  hear  her  words 
of  passion,  broken  by  the  heavings  of  her  naked  bosom,  and  then  refuse 
the  knife,  then  say  that  you  will  not  ascend  the  Grand  Master's  throne  !" 

Gilbert's  hands  fell  from  his  brow,  and  he  tottered  toward  the  table. 
The  knife,  a  long  and  serpentine  blade,  shapen  like  the  dagger  of  the 
Malay,  flashed  brightly  on  the  surface  of  the  sombre  mahogany. 

"  Which  way — "  he  said  in  a  whisper,  that  was  scarcely  audible— 
"  Which  way — do  I  pass — from  this  place  ?" 

He  seized  the  knife,  his  hand  trembling  in  every  nerve. 

"  First,  you  must  swear  an  Oath,  that  you"  will  appear  in  this  hall 
again  before  the  rising  of  the  sun — " 

"  Quick  !    Your  Oath—" 

"  That  you  will  permit  no  one  to  see  your  face,  that  you  will  speak  to 
no  one,  while  absent  on  this  errand — " 

"  Your  Oath!"  the  knife,  agitated  by  the  tremor  of  his  hand,  clattered 
against  the  table. 

»  Kneel  !" 

With  the  knife  in  his  hand,  he  knelt,  heard  the  Oath,  and  repeated 
every  syllable  of  its  crowded  imprecations.  The  lamp  gave  its  faint 
beams  to  the  scene.  On  one  side  of  the  table,  the  Invisible,  shrouded  in 
his  shapeless  dark  robe,  with  a  silent  and  motionless  figure  on  either 
hand ;  before  the  table,  kneeling  on  the  stone  floor,  the  huge  form  of  the 
Woodsman,  his  head  bowed,  his  hand,  which  grasped  the  knife,  agitated 
by  an  unceasing  motion,  while  his  eyes  shone  with  a  mad  glare,  and  his 
lips,  compressed  over  his  set  teeth,  indicated  at  once  the  firmness  and  the 
horror  of  his  resolve. 

"Brethren,  blindfold  the  Candidate,  and  lead  him  forth  from  this  cell  to 
the  house  of  Peter  Dorfner  !"  said  the  Invisible. 

With  one  movement  the  silent  figures  rose,  and  approached  the  kneel- 
ing Hunter,  who  still  clasped  the  knife,  and  gazed  upon  the  floor,  mut- 
tering the  name  of  the  Orphan  Girl. 

It  might  be  seen,  even  by  the  dim  light,  that  one  of  these  cowled'  forms 
was  that  of  a  stout,  perchance  Herculean  man,  while  the  other  was  spare 
and  slender. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHfKON. 


131 


The  stoutest  of  the  twain  bound  a  dark  handkerchief  tightly  around  the 
Hunter's  eyes,  and,  at  the  same  moment,  lifted  the  cowl  which  veiled  his 
features.  A  red  round  face,  with  hair  and  beard  as  white  as  snow,  and 
bright  eyes,  almost  buried  among-  laughing  wrinkles,  glowed  in  the  light, 
with  the  cowl  encircling  it,  like  a  dark  frame  around  a  warmly  colored 
picture. 

It  was  the  face  of  Peter  Dorfner. 

And,  at  the  same  instant  that  his  laughing  face,  with  a  deadly  malice 
sneering  from  its  very  laughter,  was  revealed,  the  other  figure  raised  his 
cowl,  and  disclosed  the  sharp  features  of  the  Unknown,  who  had  led  Gil- 
bert to  this  cell. 

"  We  will  conduct  him  to  the  scene — Most  Venerable — and  after  he 
has  passed  the  ordeal,  bring  him  once  more  to  the  hall  of  the  Supreme 
Lodge  !"  said  Peter  Dorfner,  in  a  tone  of  lugubrious  depth,  while  his  eyes 
twinkled,  and  his  lips  grimaced  in  sneering  laughter. 

"  Even  so  !  Thou  hast  said  it,  and  it  shall  be  done  !"  added  the 
slender  gentleman,  in  a  tone  as  guttural,  and  with  the  same  grimace  and 
sneer  of  his  partner. 

"  Let  it  be  (jone  !  Away  !  Three  hours  from  this  moment,  I  will 
await  you  !"    And  the  Invisible  waved  his  white  hand. 

The  Hunter  disappeared  in  the  shadows  of  the  cell,  in  the  charge  of 
the  two  disguised  men  ;  the  sound  of  a  door,  quietly  closed,  was  heard, 
followed  by  the  echo  of  foot-tramps,  and  all  was  still. 


CHAPTER  TWELFTH. 

THE   INVISIBLE   HEAD   OF  THE  ORDER. 

The  Invisible  was  alone. 

Alone,  in  the  centre  of  the  gloomy  place,  with  the  hanging  lamp  shin- 
ing down  over  his  cowled  head  and  white  hand,  resting  on  the  massive 
volume.  Around  him,  all  was  gloom  ;  the  walls  of  the  place  were  lost 
in  the  darkness. 

The  light  only  served  to  illumine  that  solitary  figure,  seated  beside  the 
table,  with  the  cowl  over  his  face,  and  the  marble-like  hand  extended 
from  the  black  robe.  We  may  not  see  his  face,  but  a  deep  sigh  breaks 
on  the  silence,  and  the  white  hand  trembles  in  every  slender  finger. 

/ 


132  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

And  while  the  hour  passed,  this  unknown  being,  shrouded  not  only  in 
his  cowl  and  robe,  but  in  the  shadow  and  secresy  of  the  cell,  which  was 
sunken  in  the  bosom  of  the  hill,  remained  seated  by  the  table,  under  the 
light  of  the  hanging  lamp,  with  his  pale  hand  placed  upon  the  Book. 

And  all  the  while,  he  talked  aloud,  as  though  conversing  with  his  own 
soul,  in  the  words  of  audible  language. 

"  Fools  !  They  pretend  to  sneer  while  they  bind  the  Initiate's  eyes, 
and  laugh  in  scorn  as  they  lead  him  to  his  work.  They  affect  to  despise 
this  Organization,  which  they  think  is  known  to  them  in  all  its  complica- 
tions of  Mystery  and  Power  !  And  all  the  while,  the  humblest  Initiate 
of  the  humblest  Lodge,  is  not  more  the  dupe  of  the  Master  of  that  Lodge, 
than  Peter  Dorfner  and  his  friend  are  mine.  Yet,  they  sneer  and 
grimace,  ha,  ha!  They  fancy  that  they  share  my  power,  and  partake 
with  me,  in  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  incredible  Machinery  of  the 
Order.  They,  indeed  !  it  is  a  pitiable  delusion.  Both  stained  with 
cowardly  crimes,  both  urging  the  Woodsman  to  this  deed,  because  the 
life  of  Madeline  may  be  their  death,  while  I,  in  the  rough  granite  of  that 
rude  Hunter's  soul,  already  can  trace  the  outlines  of  a  Man  of  Genius. 

"  In  my  hands,  he  will  control  the  Order  on  this  Continent ;  in  my 
hands  he  will  go  forth  to  his  great  work,  prepared  for  every  extremity,  by 
this  nighVs  trial,  which  will  cut  him  off  forever  from  all  sympathy  or 
fellowship  with  Man. 

"  And  yet  they  dream — those  creatures  of  an  hour,  who  have  no 
thought  beyond  the  gratification  of  an  appetite,  or  the  gorging  of  an  in- 
satiate avarice — that  the  Order  is  but  a  cunning  trick,  invented  yester- 
day, to  cheat  and  bewilder  baser  men  than  themselves  ! 

"  That  Order  has  flourished  for  thousands  of  years,  its  very  name  un- 
known 10  history,  while  its  symbols — the  Altar,  the  Ark,  the  Urn — have 
been  stolen  by  all  forms  of  religion,  and  adapted  to  the  childish  mummer- 
ies of  all  shapes  of  Secret  Organization. 

"Far — far  back  into  the  Night  of  Ages,  we  can  trace  the  Order.  It 
arose  in  the  dawn  of  the  World,  when  Man,  putting  on  the  name  of  Priest 
or  King,  first  began  to  crush  his  Brother.  Back,  farther  than  the  era  of 
Babel's  Tower,  back  even  farther  than  the  Deluge,  even  into  those  dim 
ages,  whose  memory  is  now  called  a  fable,  we  may  surely  trace  the 
Great  Secret  Order. 

"  At  first,  it  was,  in  a  word,  the  expression  of  Natural  Religion — which 
had  been  lost  among  Altars  and  Thrones — by  the  multitude  of  Mankind, 
in  the  forms  and  with  the  solemnities  of  symbolic  worship.  A  symbol 
was  the  earliest  form  of  an  Idea,  and  therefore,  the  symbols  of  the  Order 
are  few,  distinct  and  natural.  They  address  themselves  alike  to  the 
civilized  man  and  the  savage  who  is  only  one  grade  above  the  brute. 
They  have  been  received  alike  by  the  Egyptian  among  his  pyramids,  by 
the  polished  Grecian  under  the  clear  skies  and  by  the  wavelets  seas  of  his 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


133 


beloved  clime,  by  the  warlike  and  practical  Roman,  the  half-naked  Briton 
in  his  Druid  rites,  and  the  Hindoo,  entangled  among  the  mazes  of  castes, 
and  ridden  to  the  dust  by  a  ferocious  Religion. 

"All  ages,  all  nations  have  known  this  Order.  Moulded  anew  by  the 
intellect  of  Moses,  it  appeared  in  the  elaborate  ceremonial  of  the  Jewish 
Religion  ;  to  his  People  of  a  later  day,  in  the  apparently  unintelligible 
dreams  of  the  Cabalists.  The  Greek  beheld  it  in  the  mysteries  called 
Eleusinian ;  its  rites  were  observed  in  the  camp  of  the  Romans ;  it 
became  manifested  to  Europe  in  the  Middle  Ages,  under  the  form  of 
Chivalry,  and  now,  in  Europe,  in  the  year  1774,  it  is  called  Masonry  ;  a 
ridiculous  Fable  of  Solomon  and  Hiram  takes  the  place  of  the  Great 
Truths  of  the  Order ;  and  its  simplicity  of  form  and  serene  grandeur  of 
ceremonial,  are  lost  in  a  maze  of  childish  observances* 

"  Shall  1  not  revive  the  Order,  and  bid  it  live  again  in  a  stronger  and 
bolder  life  than  ever  ?  •  For  Good  or  for  Evil  ? 

"  Behold  the  Eternal  Wisdom  manifested  in  its  laws  and  ritual !  This 
Grand  Master,  who  now  awaits  his  doom  in  the  next  chamber,  did  not 
dream,  one  hour  ago,  that  there  was  such  a  Power  in  the  world  as  the 
Supreme  Lodge.  Yet,  at  his  Initiation,  he  had  sworn  fealty  to  that 
Lodge;  he  had  bound  himself  to  recognise  it,  when*lt  appeared  in  a 
certain  form,  and  by  a  minutely  described  symbol,  and  to-night  he  be- 
holds the  form  and  the  symbol  for  the  first  time.  At  first,  he  hesitates ; 
but,  bewildered  by  the  conception  of  a  secret  and  incomprehensible 
Power,  beyond  and  above  him,  he  yields  like  a  slave  to  the  master's  rod. 

"And  this  band  of  Pirates  and  Robbers — not  only  the  Pirates  of  the  sea, 
but  of  the  counting-house  ;  not  merely  the  Robbers  of  the  highway,  but  of 
the  desk  and  counter — become  subject  to  my  control.  I  hold  their  im- 
mense organization  in  the  palm  of  my  hand." 

The  Invisible  stretched  forth  his  white  hand,  and  the  light  revealed  his 
eyes,  dilating  with  inexplicable  emotion. 

"  Shall  it  be  for  Good  ?"  his  voice  broke  in  musical  cadence  upon  the 
breathless  stillness  of  the  cell — "  or  for  Evil  ?" 

His  head  drooped  ;  once  more  his  cheeks,  unnaturally  pale,  rested  with- 
in his  hands,  while  his  eyes,  almost  shadowed  by  his  hair,  which  fell  over 
his  projecting  forehead,  shone  with  a  fixed  and  dazzling  light. 

In  this  posture,  without  a  word  or  gesture,  to  indicate  that  there  was 
life  or  thought  in  him,  he  remained  for  the  space  of  an  hour. 

No  human  hand  may  dare  to  picture  the  dark  wilderness  of  his  thoughts. 


1U  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


CHAPTER  THIRTEENTH. 
the  ancient  coin. 

Madeline  ! 

The  moon  gleams  through  the  narrow  window,  whose  white  curtains 
are  turned  aside  from  the  small  panes,  framed  in  lead,  and  shining  over 
the  dark  coverlet  of  the  bed,  discloses  the  snowy  form  reposing  in 
its  centre. 

It  is  by  no  means  a  spacious  room,  nor  are  the  walls  concealed  by  rich 
purple  tapestry,  nor  do  the  creations  of  the  painter's  soul  glow  in  the 
moonlight,  from  frames  profuse  in  gilding  and  decked  with  elaborate  carv- 
ings The  floor  is  bare  ;  the  walls  covered  with  panels  of  dark  oak  ;  two 
windows  give  light  to  the  narrow  apartment,  one  looking  to  the  west  and 
the  other  to  the  south.  Between  these  windows,  in  the  corner,  stands  a 
small  bed  ;  two  or  three  quaint  chairs,  and  a  walnut  dressing-bureau,  sur- 
mounted by  an  oval  mirror,  complete  the  scanty  furniture  of  the  room. 

And  it  is  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  see  the  moonlight  gushing  over  the 
dark  coverlet  from  the  southern  window.  While  all  is  dreary  winter, 
white  snow-drifts,  and  leafless  woods,  and  cloudless  sky  without ;  while, 
from  the  room  below,  echo  the  sounds  of  the  midnight  carouse,  here, 
in  the  Maiden's  bed-chamber,  all  is  silent,  and  the  only  light  that  comes 
to  bless  her  slumbering  form,  is  the  clear  moonshine,  gushing  through  the 
narrow  window-pane. 

She  rests  upon  the  bed,  her  form  enveloped  in  the  folds  of  a  white  gar- 
ment, which,  covering  her  arms  with  its  loose  sleeves,  and  her  head  with 
something  like  a  hood  or  cowl,,  suffers  her  clasped  hands,  and  face  with 
the  brown  hair  twining  round  its  warm  cheeks,  to  be  visible.  But  the 
moonlight  comes  lovingly  to  bless  her  slumbering  form,  and  in  its  pale 
glow,  she  seems  not  a  living  woman,  but  resembles  the  form  of  a  dead 
Nun,  laid  upon  her  sinless  couch,  with  every  limb  and  feature  composed 
in  the  sleep  of  death. 

The  shadows  and  the  moonbeams  struggle  for  the  mastery,  in  the  dim 
and  narrow  room  ;  now  the  light  glares  on  the  mirror  and  widens  upon  the 
bed.  The  tread  of  the  dancers,  the  mad  music  of  the  revel,  echo  from 
the  room  beneath,  but  still  she  slumbers,  her  virgin  face  looking  very 
pure  and  altogether  loveable,  as  the  white  hood  and  brown  tresses  contrast 
with  her  dark  brows,  delicately  defined  eyelashes,  warm  lips  and 
rosy  cheeks. 

And  the  clasped  hands  gently  rise  and  as  gently  fall,  moved  by  the 
regular  pulsations  of  her  virgin  breast. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  135 

As  she  slumbers,  her  lips  move,  and  the  silence  is  broken  by  an  inco- 
herent ejaculation. 

"  It  is  so  beautiful !  *  *  *  And  thou  art  indeed  the  Lord  of  these 
valleys — *  *  *  this  gloomy  hall  where  we  stand,  looking  forth  upon  the 
field  and  forest,  the  lake  and  river,  smiling  in  the  summer  sun,  is  thine  !'* 

Strange  dream,  that  speaks  altogether  of  lordly  halls,  and  magnificent 
hills  and  valleys,  with  no  shadow  to  dim  the  sunshine,  no  cloud  to  darken 
the  brightness  of  the  Future 

"  Madeline  !" 

The  rays  of  a  lamp  fell  softly  over  the  face  of  the  sleeping  girl,  and  a 
countenance,  almost  deformed  by  the  struggle  of  contending  passions, 
looked  in  upon  her  slumber. 

It  was  the  young  stranger,  attired  in  the  gray  surtout,  with  curls  of 
brown  hair  clustering  around  his  white  forehead.  Lamp  in  hand,  he  had 
crossed  the  threshold  with  the  stealthy  footstep  of  a  man  conscious  of  a 
Guilty  Thought;  he  had  closed  and  bolted  ^the  door,  drawn  the  curtains 
over  the  southern  window,  and  now  stood  by  the  couch, — alone  with  his 
sleeping  victim. 

"Madeline!" 

It  was  spoken  in  a  whisper  deepened  by  passion,  but  the  orphan  girl, 
wrapped  in  her  dreams,  did  not  hear  the  voice  that  uttered  her  name. 

Turning  in  her  slumber,  she  rested  her  cheek  upon  her  right  arm,  and 
her  face  was  beneath  the  gaze  of  the  intruder.  Like  a  slumbering  nun  in 
her  white  garment  and  hood,  she  lay  before  him,  a  soft  flush  stealing  over 
her  clear  brown  cheek,  her  eyelids  moving  gently  as  their  fringes  shone 
with  moisture,  her  lips  parting  until  the  ivory  teeth  shone  through  their 
glowing  red. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  and  there  was  a  sad  look  of  determined 
passion  on  his  handsome  face,  as  he  heard  the  sleeper  murmur  his  name 
in  her  dreams. 

With  his  hand  grasping  her  arm,  the  enticing  loveliness  of  her  face 
glowing  in  the  light,  he  turned  his  gaze  away,  and  his  eye  wandered  to 
the  bolted  door.  It  was  yet  time  to  relent ;  he  might  cross  that  threshold 
in  a  moment,  and  the  sleeping  girl  would  be  saved. 

Ah,  that  some  good  Angel,  whose  solemn  care  it  is  to  watch  over  the 
sleep  of  child-like  maidenhood,  had  warned  him  back  ;  and  in  that  moment 
when  he  paused  in  trembling  suspense,  even  beside  the  bed,  had  guided 
his  footsteps  from  the  room,  and  from  the  home  of  the  Orphan  Girl  ! 

44  But  no  !  The  world  would  laugh  when  it  heard  the  story — even 
Jacopo  would  jeer  !  She  loves  me,  and  is  already  mine  ;  for  even  in  her 
dreams  she  speaks  my  name  !" 

In  silence  he  surveyed  the  sleeping  girl,  as  the  light  fell  in  mild  radi- 
ance over  her  face. 


136  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"An  hour !  only  an  hour !  •  And  yet  a  great  many  things  may  be  done 

in  an  hour  !" 

His  hand  pressed  her  bared  arm ;  his  fingers  encountered  a  stray  tress 
of  her  brown  hair. 

'  Hah  !    She  wakes  —  she  will  utter  a  shriek  as  she  beholds  me — all  is 

lost!" 

While  John  stood  spell-bound,  unable  to  utter  a  word,  the  young  girl 
started  up  into  a  sitting  posture,  her  feet  hanging  over  the  side  of  the  bed, 
her  hands  slightly  clasped,  and  resting  upon  the  white  folds  of  her  dress. 

Her  eyes  unclosed.  John  uttered  an  involuntary  cry  of  terror  ;  for 
their  light  was  unnatural  and  glassy  ;  they  did  not  look  into  his  handsome 
face  with  the  impetuous  glance  of  voluptuous  impulse,  or  the  moist  ten- 
derness of  powerless  passion  but  glared  upon  him  with  the  cold  stare 
of  death. 

"  The  potion  has  killed  her  1  am  guilty — "  faltered  the  young  man, 

unable  to  turn  his  glance  away  from  those  glaring  eyes. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  unutterable  surprise,  mingled  with  a  terror  that 
chilled  every  vein,  and  made  his  heart  beat  with  a  sluggish  and  painful 
pulsation,  that  the  Unknown  heard  the  first  words  which  came  from  the 
lips  of  the  Orphan  Madeline. 

"  Reginald  Lyndulfe  !"  she  uttered,  in  a  voice  of  unnatural  intonation. 

The  face  of  John  expressed  the  very  extremity  of  apathetic  wonder. 

¥  My  name  !" 

The  Maiden,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  her  gently  clasped  hands 
resting  on  her  dress,  the  light  shining  full  upon  her  eyes,  whispered, 
still  in  that  voice,  unnatural  as  her  glassy  stave — 

"  Reginald  Lyndulfe  !  A  great  lord,  the  son  of  a-  lord,  he  comes  to 
this  forest  home,  eager  to  win  a  noble  victory.  With  soft  words  and 
gentle  smiles.,  eyes  whose  glances  thrill,  and  tones  whose  music  maddens, 
he  comes  to  the  home  of  the  poor  Orphan  Girl,  and  comes  to  win  her 
from  purity  and  innocence,  into  pollution  and  shame.  It  is  a  noble  deed 
for  one  so  noble  and  fair  to  look  upon  !  And  the  poor  girl,  sitting  upon 
her  virgin  couch,  her  senses  wrapped  in  the  delirium  of  an  unknown 
poison,  speaks  these  words  in  the  ears  of  Reginald,  Lord  of  Lyndulfe,  and 
feels  that  in  a  moment  she  will  wake  from  her  dream — only  awake  to 
forget  the  teachings  of  that  dream — only  awake  to  be  more  completely  in 
her  Seducer's  power  !" 

The  young  man  stood  beside  the  bed,  the  light  in  his  hand,  but  without 
speech  or  motion.  The  ruddy  hue  of  health  had  passed  from  his  face ; 
his  dark  blue  eyes  grew  large  and  wild  ;  an  idiotic  smile  agitated  his 
nether  lip. 

He  could  not  speak  ;  he  could  not  find  in  his  heart  the  word  which 
was  to  answer  these  incredible  words  of  the  Somnambulist,  nor  had  he 
the  physical  power  to  frame  an  audible  sound. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  137 

«  Yes,  Reginald—"  she  said,  her  large  eyes  yet  veiled  by  that  deathly 
glassiness —  "  it  is  true.  In  this  strange  sleep  I  know  you,  know  your 
real  name,  and  know  your  secret  purposes.  It  is  also  true,  that  in  a 
moment  I  will  awake  from  this  dream — wonder  to  find  you  here,  in  my 
chamber, — listen  to  your  words,  and  yield  to  their  deceit." 

Not  one  line  of  her  features  moved;  not  a  tremor  of  the  expanded  lid, 
nor  a  smile  of  the  set  lips,  gave  to  the  Somnambulist  the  appearance  of 
life.  She  looked  like  a  beautiful  image  of  Death,  freshly  gathered  from 
the  coffin  ;  and  yet  her  beauty  was  more  terrible  to  behold  than  the  most 
loathsome  skull  or  skeleton  of  the  charnel-house. 

Spell-bound,  unable  to  advance  or  recede,  John  stood  by  the  bed,  the 
arm  which  extended  the  lamp,  stiff  and  rigid  as  an  arm  of  iron.  He  felt 
the  cold  damps  upon  his  forehead ;  he  could  not  look  to  the  right  or  the 
left ;  the  glassy  eyes  of  Madeline  enchained  him,  and  held  him  motion- 
less and  dumb. 

The  wind  howled  dismally  without ;  he  heard  it,  and  fancied  it  was 
some  strange  funeral  knell,  tolling  from  an  unearthly  bell,  rung  by  demon 
hands. 

Even  as  the  grotesque  conceit  flashed  over  his  bewildered  brain,  there 
came,  crowding  together,  a  .mass  of  incoherent  thoughts : 

"  The  drug  has  the  influence  of  some  devil's  spell  *  *  *  It  has  destroyed 
her  reason  *  *  *  It  is  not  her  voice  which  I  hear,  but  the  voice  of  a  spirit 
*  *  *  So  pale,  so  beautiful,  so  like  a  dead  Maiden  half-restored  to  life  !" 

Thoughts  like  these  crowded  over  his  brain,  but  he  could  not  speak  a 
word. 

She  rose  from  her  bed.  With  a  footstep  that  seemed  not  to  touch  the 
floor,  but  to  glide  over  it,  like  the  footstep  of  a  spiritual  thin^  she  passed 
the  form  of  the  young  man,  her  hands  extended,  and  her  glassy  eyes  fixed 
on  the  vacant  air. 

"  Here — on  this  very  spot  where  now  I  stand — my  Mother  stood  !" 

He  heard  the  voice,  but  could  not  turn  and  look  upon  her.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  same  spell  which  wrapped  her  senses  in  this  delirium, 
filled  his  veins  with  ice. 

"  Here  she  stood,  and  begged  for  mercy  !  *  Spare  me  ! — if  not  for  the 
sake  of  God,  if  not  for  the  sake  of  mercy,  for  the  sake  of  my  unborn 
child  I'    And  yet  they  killed  her — " 

Her  voice,  hollow  and  unnatural  as  it  was,  thrilled  with  a  more  ghost- 
like accent,  as  she  said  these  words  : 

"  And  yet  they  killed  her  !  Upon  this  floor,  ere  the  first  cry  of  her 
babe  had  melted  on  her  ears,  ere  she  had  seen  the  face  of  that  new-born 
child,  they  murdered  her,  in  her  very  anguish  and  travail  ! — Mother,  your 
robes  are  very  white,  but  there  is  blood  upon  their  whiteness.  Mother, 
your  face  is  very  fair,  but  there  is  the  stain  of  blood  upon  it,  too  ; — blood 
on  the  brow  and  lip,  blood  everywhere  !" 


138  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

Still,  with  the  light  shining  over  the  untenanted  bed,  the  young  man 
stood  there,  conscious  that  the  Orphan  Girl  was  near  him,  but  unable  to 
turn  and  gaze  upon  her  deathly  eyes,  although  her  voice  penetrated  his 
very  blood. 

"In  a  moment,  Mother — "  he  heard  her  voice,  as,  in  that  slow,  mea- 
sured tone,  she  spoke — "  your  daughter  will  kneel  upon  this  very  spot, 
and  plead,  not  for  her  life,  but  for  her  honor.  Plead,  not  with  her  Mur- 
derer, but  with  her  Seducer.  And,  like  you,  Mother,  she  will  pray  to  an 
ear  that  is  brass,  a  heart  that  is  stone  !" 

The  light,  shining  over  the  young  man's  shoulder,  lighting  up  his 
graceful  form  and  livid  face,  also  shone  upon  the  white  image  at  his  back, 
and  imparted  a  faint  glow  to  the  pale  face  and  motionless  eyeballs. 

How  shall  we  explain  this  scene  ?  This  Orphan  Girl,  with  her  blood 
wrapped  in  a  spectral  somnambulism, — chilled  at  its  fountains, — her 
bosom  pulseless,  her  eye  glassy — while  her  soul  seems  to  burst  into  a 
new  life,— a  life  at  once  conscious  of  the  unknown  Past  and  the  unknown 
Future  ?  Shall  we  say  that  all  this  was  the  work  of  the  drug  adminis- 
tered not  an  hour  ago,  or  the  result  of  witchcraft  ?  Or  shall  we  boldly 
imagine  that  it  is  not  the  soul  of  the  Orphan  Girl  which  speaks  from  her 
lips,  but  that  some  spiritual  Presence  from  the  Other  World  now  fills  her 
bosom  ? 

Let  us  look  round  the  walks  of  our  everyday  life,  and  explain  the 
thousand  incidents,  which  to  us  appear  so  dark  and  inexplicable.  Let  us 
summon  to  our  aid  all  the  old-time  wisdom  which  was  called  Magic,  or 
the  modern  Philosophy,  which  bears  the  name  of  Magnetism.  Where 
will  our  explanations  end  ?  Where  they  began.  We  can  only  record 
the  facts — or  what  to  us  appear  like  facts  ; — the  explanation  is  reserved 
for  another  and  more  intelligent  age  of  the  world,  perchance  for  another 
and  brighter  state  of  being. 

So,  in  relation  to  this  incredible  scene,  now  before  us,  we  can  only 
picture,  not  explain.  Perchance,  in  future  pages  of  this  history,  we  may 
learn  the  mystery  of  poor  Madeline's  life. 

Suddenly  a  sound,  as  of  a  corse  hurled  fiercely  from  its  coffin — dashed 
rudely  on  the  hard  floor — broke  the  stupor  which  paralyzed  the  senses 
of  the  stranger.  Distinctly  he  heard  that  sound— listened  with  hushed 
breath  for  the  voice  of  Madeline — all  was  still. 

The  blood  flowed  freely  again ;  the  strange  terror  which  had  held  him 
speechless  was  gone  ;  he  could  speak,  but  could  not  muster  courage  to 
turn  himself,  and  look  upon  the  maiden. 

"Ah — this  is  some  devil's  wizard-craft!  Jacopo!  Jacopo !  You 
shall  pay  dearly  for  this  !" 

He  turned — 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


139 


At  his  feet,  no  longer  pale  and  spectral,  but  throbbing  and  panting,  as 
with  the  first  pulses  of  a  new  life,  was  stretched  the  Maiden  Madeline, 
her  cheeks  glowing  redly  against  the  brown  curls  and  the  white  hood  ; 
her  eyelids,  half-unclosed,  gleaming  with  the  moist  radiance  which  they 
could  not  altogether  veil. 

"  She  awakes  from  this  wizard  spell — "  faltered  John,  or  Reginald,  as 
you  may  choose  to  designate  him. 

Bending  over  her,  light  in  hand,  he  soon  forgot  all  his  terrors — so^pn 
forgot  the  pale,  glassy-eyed  maiden,  in  that  half-slumbering  image  of  vo- 
luptuous loveliness. 

"  Madeline  !"  he  softly  said,  while  his  cheek  was  flushed,  his  deep  blue 
eye,  warm  and  passionate  in  its  light — "Awake  !  It  is  I — it  is  your — " 

Lover  ?  He  could  not  speak  the  word  ;  and  as  for  "  Husband,"  it  only 
rose  .before  him  coupled  with  the  sneer  of  the — World. 

"  Marry  her!"  Even  as  she  bloomed  beneath  his  gaze,  trembling  softly 
into  a  warm  and  passionate  life,  a  sneer  curled  his  lip — "  Reginald  of 
Lyndulfe,  and  the  Peasant  Girl  of  Wissahikon  !  The  world  will  forgive 
the — the  outrage,  but  a  marriage — never  !" 

Merrily  from  the  room  below  came  the  sounds  of  the  midnight  revel ; 
sad  and  knell-like  the  wind  howled  through  the  glen  of  Wissahikon  ;  but 
the  young  man,  bending  over  the  half-conscious  girl,  did  not  heed  the  echo 
of  the  dancers'  tread,  nor  mark  the  roaring  of  the  blast. 

His  gaze  was  centred  upon  her  eyes,  shining  dimly  through  their  half 
closed  lids  ;  he  seemed  to  gloat  upon  the  freshness  of  her  parted  lips,  the 
glowing  warmth  of  her  cheeks. 

The  bosom  which,  only  a  moment  past,  had  rested  beneath  the  white 
robe,  like  a  dead  bosom  in  its  shroud,  now  began  to  rise  and  swell.  She 
suddenly  stretched  forth  her  arms — with  eyes  wide  open,  glared  wildly 
about  her — started  to  her  feet,  and  shrunk  away  from  the  Stranger,  as 
though  his  very  gaze  filled  her  with  indefinable  anguish. 

"  You  here — in  my  chamber — at  this  lone  hour  !  —  " 

She  faltered  the  words,  and,  joining  her  hands,  stood  in  her  white  robe 
before  this  unknown  man,  her  hair  coursing  freely  over  Her  neck  and 
shoulders. 

"  Madeline,  you  do  not  love  me,"  he  slowly  uttered,  his  voice  low  and 
distinct,  his  gaze  centred  upon  her  face. 

"  Ah — it  is  some  dream.  It  cannot  be.  You — you  would  not — could 
not  be  so  base  !  To  pass  the  threshold  of  my  chamber  at  the  dead  hour 
of  night — to  whisper  words  of  love  to  a  poor  forest  girl,  whose  faith  is 
plighted  to  another.    Ah — it  is  not  your  voice  that  I  hear." 

Without  removing  his  gaze,  the  young  man  raised  his  clasped  hands, 
and,  in  a  voice  that  was  almost  hallowed  by  the  deep  reverence  which 
was  mingled  with  its  passion,  he  continued: 

"  Madeline,  will  you  listen  to  me  1    Hear  me,  before  you  reject  my 


'# 


140  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

suit  with  scorn.  Do  not  condemn  me  unheard.  Oh,  when  I  stand  thus 
before  you,  and  feel  that  we  are  indeed  alone  with  each  other,  shut  out 
from  all  the  world,  and  think  «how  often  I  have  longed,  prayed  for  this 
moment,  I  could  kneel  at  your  feet  and  thank  " 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  Did  he  fear  to  complete  the  sen- 
tence ? — was  he  afraid  to  take  the  name  of  God  upon  his  lips  ? 

"Madeline,  will  you  listen  to  me?"  he  cried,  starting  forward,  his 
hands  outstretched,  his  voice  broken  by  emotion.  She  could  see  his  chest 
heave  and  swell  beneath  the  coarse  garb  that  covered  it ;  and  his  manly 
face,  flushed  by  passion,  and  lighted  by  earnest  eyes,  seemed  to  impress 
her  with  an  emotion  as  wild  and  singular  as  his  own. 

"John — "  she  muttered,  sinking  into  a  chair  beside  the  bed,  as  though 
her  strength  had  failed  her — "  You  know  that  I  am  the  plighted  Wife  of 
Gilbert  Morgan.  When  last  we  met,  I  told  you  the  story  of  my  life. 
Depart — leave  me — leave  me — I  cannot — " 

Her  words  were  incoherent,  her  accents  tremulous  and  broken.  As  the 
blushes  warmed  over  her  brown  cheek,  she  absently  tossed  the  tresses  of 
her  hair  aside  from  her  face,  and  cast  her  eyes — shining  with  moisture 
— to  the  floor. 

"You  cannot  love  him!"  cried  the  young  man — "  That  is  it,  Madeline. 
Nay,  do  not  attempt  a  denial.    Your  own  heart  confirms  my  words." 

Madeline  raised  her  eyes — her  face  was  very  pale,  her  voice  earnest 
though  tremulous  as  she  spoke  : 

"  Only  a  month  ago,  beneath  the  withered  chesnut  tree  that  stands  near 
the  water-side,  I  first  beheld  you,  first  listened  to  your  voice.  That  hour 
brought  woe  and  madness  to  me  !  Before  I  saw  you,  my  life  was  calm 
—  thoughtless — but  it  was  happy.  An  humble  peasant  girl,  I  had  been 
reared  in  these  solitudes  ;  cherished  beneath  the  roof  which  now  shelters 
us  ;  my  only  adviser,  a  rude  Indian  man,  who,  but  an  hour  ago,  warned 
me  to  fear  you,  John ;  aye,  to  dread  you  as  the  Manitto  of  Evil.  There 
was  another  friend — a  man,  now  aged,  who  dwells  in  the  Monastery  up 
the  stream,  and  who,  from  the  hour  of  earliest  childhood,  unclosed  to  my 
eyes  the  pages  of  the  Bible,  the  knowledge  of  the  world's  past  history. 
It  was  Father  Luke,  of  the  Wissahikon  Monastery,  who  taught  the  friend- 
less Orphan  Girl  the  speech  of  the  great  world,  and  the  lessons  of  that 
holy  Religion  which  says  to  all  of  us,  even  to  the  poorest  and  the  hum- 
blest— '  There  is  a  God,  and  he  is  our  Father.  There  is  another  World, 
a  better  and  a  brighter  world,  and  it  shall  be  our  Home,  when  our  bones 
are  dust.' " 

She  paused,  her  pale  cheek  glowing  into  sudden  life,  her  eyes  gleam- 
ing, and  a  look  of  almost  hallowed  purity  trembling  over  the  lineaments 
of  her  face. 

"And  Father  Luke  has  warned  me,  John."  she  said,  "warned  me  to 
fear  you  as  I  would  fear  the  Enemy  of  Mankind!" 

♦ 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAfllKON.  Ill 

"Madeline,  it  is  true  that  I  have  only  known  your'  name  for  a  brief 
month.  It  is  true  that  your  love  dawned  suddenly  upon  my  soul.  But 
since  the  hour  when  I  first  saw  you,  I  have  not  been  the  master  of  my 
own  late.  For  love  of  you,  Madeline,  I  would  sacrifice  all  that  is  dear 
to  me  in  the  world  ;  in  your  presence  alone  I  exist ;  away  from  your  side, 
my  life  is  dark — Oh,  dark — a  dreary  waste,  without  a  flower ;  a  gloomy 
night  withont  a  star  !  Listen  to  me,  Madeline — instead  of  being  as  I  am, 
but  the  poor  clerk  of  a  wealthy  Merchant,  were  I  the  titled  heir  of  some 
princely  estate,  I  would  fling  title  and  lands  at  your  feet,  and  be  proud  to 
call  the  humble  girl  of  Wissahikon  my  bride." 

Seated  on  the  chair  beside  the  bed,  her  flushed  cheek  relieved  by  the 
brown  hair,  which  swept  freely  from  the  folds  of  the  white  hood,  over 
her  shoulders,  Madeline  looked  up  into  the  face  of  her  lover,  with  a  sen- 
sation of  peculiar  character.  It  was  not  love,  it  was  not  fear.  He  stood 
some  paces  from  her  side,  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  the  light  which  he 
held  disclosing  his  manly  face  encircled  by  curls  of  waving  brown  hair, 
his  muscular  and  agile  form  enveloped  in  the  suit  of  coarse  cloth,  which, 
buttoned  to  the  throat,  relieved  his  countenance,  and  displayed  the  bold 
outline  of  his  chest,  the  sinewy  proportions  of  his  arms. 

"  It  may  not  be,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  almost  inaudible — "  Our  paths  in 
this  world  lie  apart.  I  am  the  plighted  Wife  of  another.  You  —  you  — 
are  unknown  to  me.    Your  very  name — " 

She  cast  her  eyes  on  the  floor  ;  brighter  and  deeper  the  blushes  glowed 
over  her  cheek. 

John  placed  the  lamp  upon  a  small  table  of  unpainted  pine,  which  stood 
near  the  bed.  Then,  seating  himself  upon  the  edge  of  that  couch,  he  took 
the  hand  which  she  had  not  the  power  to  withdraw.  Her  eyes  were 
downcast,  but  he  could  feel  the  hand  which  he  clasped  grow  cold  as  ice, 
and  the  tremulous  motion  of  her  white  robe  marked  the  throbbing  of  her 
bosom. 

"  Madeline—"  he  said,  in  a  voice  which,  low  and  faltering  in  its  ac- 
cents, at  once  enchained  the  heart  of  the  poor  girl — "  I  have  a  few  words 
to  say  to  you.  You  will  listen  to  me — listen  in  silence  and  in  patience ; 
foa  when  those  words  are  said,  I  will  leave  you  for  ever." 

She  did  not  answer ;  with  her  eyes  downcast,  and  her  bosom  swelling 
with  an  emotion  that  was  denied  the  blessing  of  speech,  she  felt  the  hand 
of  this  unknown  man  pressing  her  own,  and  could  not  withdraw  her  hand 
from  his  grasp. 

"  You  have  read  of  other  lands,  Madeline.  Have  you  not,  in  some  old 
book  of  romance,  read  a  story  something  like  this  ?— Once,  in  a  wild 
forest,  dwelt  a  beautiful  girl,  who  did  not  know  that  she  was  beautiful, 
though  the  stream  told  it  to  her,  as  her  face  was  reflected  in  its  clear 
waves  ;  and  the  wild  rose  which  bloomed  in  her  path,  seemed  pale  and 
withered,  when  compared  with  the  warm  hue  of  her  cheek,  the  moist 


\ 


142  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

ripeness  of  her  lips.  It  was  in  England,  Madeline,  in  some  shadowy 
valley  of  a  Yorkshire  forest,  that  this  orphan  girl  dwelt ;  and  many  hun- 
dred years  have  passed  since  the  dust  was  laid  upon  her  bosom — " 

As  if  absorbed  in  the  memories  of  his  narrative,  Reginald  pressed  the 
hand  which  trembled  in  his  grasp,  and  toyed  absently  with  her  flow- 
ing hair. 

"  One  day,  as,  bending  over  the  waves,  she  saw  her  face  smiling  upon 
her,  in  all  its  youth,  hallowed  by  the  innocence  of  a  stainless  heart,  there 
came  suddenly  to  her  side,  an  unknown  man,  dressed  in  the  garb  of  a 
peasant.  At  once  the  forest  girl  loved  him,  aye,  as  though  some  spell 
had  won  her  heart,  she  could  not  look  into  his  face  without  emotion,  nor 
hear  his  voice  without  trembling.  She  loved  him,  from  the  very  moment 
when,  gazing  in  the  stream,  she  saw  his  face  reflected  beside  her  own. 
Loved  him  with  a  love  that  was  not  without  a  strange  and  indefinable  fear." 

Madeline  shuddered.  Something  there  was  in.  the  story  of  Reginald 
that  penetrated  her  heart  with  an  indefinable  agitation. 

"  And  yet  he  was  unknown  to  her.  She  was  even  ignorant  of  his 
name." 

The  young  girl  raised  her  eyes,  and  for  an  instant  glanced  upon  her 
lover's  handsome  face.    Again  an  involuntary  shudder  shook  her  form. 

"  For  him,  Madeline,  this  unknown  man,  she  forsook  her  wild-wood 
valley  ;  she  followed  his  fate  into  the  great  world.  She  forsook,  for  him, 
those  dear  old  woods,  in  whose  tranquil  solitudes  her  form  had  ripened 
into  beauty  ;  forsook  the  calm  waters  which  had  reflected  her  virgin 
face  ;  forsook  all  the  peace  and  quiet  of  her  lonely  life,  and  went  forth, 
with  the  unknown  stranger,  into  the  unknown  world." 

Madeline's  head  drooped  slowly  on  her  bosom  ;  Reginald  could  not 
read  the  expression  of  her  face,  nor  mark  her  tears,  but  he  heard  her 
gasping  breath,  he  felt  that  gently  tremulous  hand. 

"  They  wandered  forth  together — "  whispered  Madeline. 

"  Yes,  unblessed  by  priestly  rites  ;  they  went  on  their  way,  hand 
linked  in  hand,  and  hearts  hallowed  in  the  bond  of  a  stainless  love.  One 
day,  Madeline,  just  as  the  sun  was  setting,  they  stood  together  on  the 
summit  of  a  hill,  the  dusk  woods  stretching  toward  the  west,  while  in  the 
east,  centred  on  the  wide  sweep  of  a  grassy  lawn,  arose  an  ancient  castle, 
with  the  banners  of  a  lordly  race  floating  from  its  loftiest  tower,  and 
strains  of  music,  rich,  deep,  festival  music,  gushing  from  its  vine-clad 
casements.  Around  that  noble  hall,  Madeline,  invested  as  it  was  with  all 
the  outward  indications  of  rank  and  weaUh,  bands  of  marriage  guests  were 
scattered,  their  gay  costumes  glittering  from  the  verdure  of  the  lawn. 
They  awaited  the  return  of  the  lord  of  this  fair  domain.  In  some  far 
land,  he  had  taken  to  himself  a  bride.  Whether  rich  or  poor,  young  or 
old,  they  knew  not;  but  word  had  been  received  that  he  would  return  to 
his  castle,  at  the  hour  of  sunset,  with  this  unknown  wife  on  his  arm." 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


143 


The  story  seemed  to  absorb  the  very  soul  of  the  Orphan  Girl.  Her 
bosom  fluttering,  her  face  averted,  she  surrendered  her  hand,  her  arm,  to 
the  grasp  of  Reginald,  and  awaited  in  undisguised  suspense  the  conclusion 
of  the  old-time  Legend. 

"  The  peasant  girl,  standing  on  the  hill-top — her  rudely  clad  lover  by 
her  side,  beheld  this  scene,  as  the  soft  warmth  of  the  summer  evening 
invested  her  face  with  new  loveliness. 

"  '  It  is  indeed  beautiful  V  she  said,  her  eyes  enchained  by  the  scene 
which  stretched  beneath  her  feet — '  Hark  !  how  the  music,  softened  by 
distance,  comes  gently  over  the  lawn  !' 

"  Her  lover  did  not  answer  her.  His  face,  not  altogether  hideous  or 
wrinkled,  you  may  be  sure,  although  his  rough  garb  indicated  a  life  of 
poverty  and  want, — his  face,  I  say,  was  shadowed  by  an  emotion  which 
the  peasant  girl  could  not  comprehend.  There  was  a  sad  look  upon  his 
brow,  but  around  his  lips,  a  smile  hung  trembling; — it  was  as  though  joy 
and  sorrow  contended  for  the  mastery  on  the  lines  of  his  countenance. 
He  did  not  speak  to  her — " 

"  He  did  not  speak  to  her — "  echoed  Madeline,  without  seeming  con- 
scious of  the  words. 

"  No,  Madeline  ;  but  led  her  gently  down  the  hill-side.  Through  the 
lofty  gates  which  stood  by  the  roadside,  they  went  together,  she  trem- 
bling nearer  to  him,  afraid,  in  her  peasant  garb,  of  all  this  music  and 
splendor.  He  took  her  silently  by  the  hand,  and  as  she  clung  closer  to 
his  side,  they  passed  over  the  lawn,  and  through  the  marriage  guests,  in 
their  glittering  costumes,  and  up  the  great  steps  of  the  ancient  castle, 
where  a  Priest,  in  the  robes  of  his  solemn  office,  awaited  the  coming  of 
the  young  Lord  and  his  Bride." 

"  4  Let  us  depart,'  she  faltered — *  This  is  no  place  for  us.  We  are  but 
poor  and  humble  ;  these  great  people,  so  richly  arrayed,  look  with  scorn 
upon  our  mean  attire.  — '  " 

"  And  she  buried  her  head  upon  his  breast,  clinging  to  his  arms  for 
support,  as  her  long  hair  waved  over  his  shoulders. 

"  «  Look  up,'  cried  her  lover,  speaking  the  name  of  his  Peasant  Bride, 
'and  behold  our  home  !'  " 

"  Need  I  pursue  the  story,  Madeline  ?  Need  I  tell  to  you  the  wonder 
and  the  joy  which  covered  the  face  of  the  Peasant  Girl  with  new  beauty, 
as  she  heard  her  unknown  Lover  addressed  by  his  Lordly  title,  and  felt 
her  footstep  press  the  threshold  of  her  princely  home  ?" 

His  voice  deepened  by  emotion,  his  hand  entwined  about  her  neck,  her 
cheek  drooping  nearer  to  his  own,  his  eyes  devoured  the  warm  loveliness 
of  her  face,  which  seemed  to  ripen  into  a  more  luxuriant  beauty  beneath 
his  gaze.  She  trembled  at  his  touch  ;  her  downcast  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  dream — "  she  faltered. 


144  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  No  dream,  Madeline,  no  dream  !    It  is  truth,  all  truth." 
M  Truth  !"    She  lifted  her  gaze,  and  beheld  his  earnest  face — "  What 
mean  you  ?" 

"  Pardon  the  deception,  Madeline.  I  said  that  this  maiden  lived  in  a 
valley  of  England,  in  the  ages  long  since  past.  She  does  dwell  in  a 
beautiful  valley  ;  her  own  form  the  incarnation  of  all  that  is  beautiful  in 
cloudless  skies,  or  unruffled  waves,  or  the  deep  sileat  night,  when  the  blue 
heaven  is  set  with  countless  stars.  It  is  the  valley  of  the  Wissahikon  ; 
and  here,  at  her  feet,  behold  her  lover  in  his  rough  peasant  garb  !" 

He  sunk  beside  her,  clasping  her  hands  within  his  own. 

"  No  peasant,  but  the  heir  of  a  lordly  line.  Yes,  Madeline,  Reginald, 
Lord  "of  Lyndulfe,  asks  your  love,  and  beseeches  the  Orphan  Girl  of 
Wissahikon  to  become  his  bride." 

"Reginald  of  Lyndulfe  !"  murmured  Madeline,  and  her  eyes,  even  amid 
their  tears,  assumed  the  glassy  appearance  which  had  veiled  their  bright- 
ness but  a  few  moments  before.    "  I  have  heard  that  name  " 

With  her  hands  upon  her  forehead,  she  seemed  absorbed  in  some  pain- 
ful memory.  Meanwhile,  Reginald,  clutching  her  robe  with  a  tremulous 
grasp — passion  in  his  flashing  eyes,  his  breast  heaving  violently,  his 
parted  lips  and  brow  deformed  by  swollen  veins — looked  up  into  her 
half-veiled  face,  as  he  whispered  once  more  the  frenzied  request. 

"  Be  mine,  Madeline  !    Be  mine  rank  power  "  his  voice 

was  broken,  his  words  incoherent. 

No  answer  came  from  the  lips  of  the  forest  girl.  While  her  hands 
veiled  her  eyes,  her  cheek  became  death-like  and  crimson  by  turns,  and 
the  folds  of  her  robe,  or  garment,  call  it  as  you  will,  were  violently  agi- 
tated by  the  impetuous  swelling  of  her  bosom. 

It  was  the  decisive  moment  of  her  fate.  She  could  not  speak  a  word 
in  answer ;  but,  as  if  enveloped  by  the  frenzies  of  a  dream,  she  felt  his 
arms  encircle  her  waist,  and  could  not  resist  their  pressure.  She  felt  his 
burning  kiss  upon  her  lip,  and  could  not  turn  her  face  away.  His  hand 
toyed  with  the  loose  tresses  of  her  hair — his  gloating  eye  surveyed  the 
half-revealed  whiteness  of  her  bosom  ;  she  trembled  in  his  embrace,  and, , 
unable  to  move,  sank  on  his  encircling  arm,  her  eyes  swimming  in  the 
light  of  powerless  passion. 

"  Reginald — •"  she  faltered,  as  though  some  memory  had  flashed  upon 
her,  like  a  lightning  spark  from  a  midnight  cloud — "  On  this  very  spot — 
eighteen  years  ago — My  Mother— pleaded  for  her  life — do  not — do  not — 
destroy  the  honor  of  her  child  ! — " 

The  kiss  of  the  lover  drowned  the  maiden's  earnest  words. 

The  sound  of  the  dance,  the  echo  of  song  had  died  away.  All  was 
silent  in  the  room  below — a  deathly  stillness  reigned  throughout  the  farm- 
house. There  was  no  sudden  blast  of  wind,  howling  through  the  gorge 
of  Wissahikon,  to  break  the  midnight  quiet  of  the  scene.    No  voice  was 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


145 


heard  to  warn  the  Seducer  back  in  his  career  of  treachery ;  in  his  arms, 
blushing  and  powerless,  the  maiden  hung,  her  lips  pressed  again  and 
again  by  his  guilty  kiss. 

But,  from  the  withered  chesnut  tree,  whose  leafless  branches  touched 
the  panes  of  the  western  window,  a  face  distorted  by  agony  more  terrible 
than  death,  was  gazing  on  the  Maiden's  peril  with  glaring  eyes. 

"  Mad'lin' !"  exclaimed  a  rough  voice,— but  it  did  not  reach  the  ears 
of  the  girl,  nor  excite  for  an  instant  the  attention  of  Reginald  Lyn- 
dulfe 

Arid  on  the  outer  side  of  the  bolted  door,  a  crouching  figure  bent  in  the 
darkness,  his  ear  laid  against  the  panels,  as  the  words  of  the  Tempter 
broke  the  deathly  stillness. 

"  She-  yields  !"  muttered  the  tremulous  voice  of  an  aged  man — "In  a 
moment,  all  is  lost  Ah  !  The  fiend  has  mocked  me  !" 

And  while  the  figure  of  Gilbert,  revealed  by  the  cold  moonlight,  was 
seen  upon  the  limbs  of  the  chesnut  tree,  his  face  against  the  window 
frame,  the  knife  shining  in  his  hand — while  the  old  man,  enshrouded  in 
the  darkness  of  the  passage,  listened  for  the  fatal  word  which  was  to  seal 
the  maiden's  shame,  Reginald  of  Lyndulfe,  pressing  his  lips  to  the  burn- 
ing cheek  of  Madeline,  gathered  her  closer  to  his  breast. 

"  Come  !  Fly  with  me  to  night — this  hour — this  moment  " 

Frenzied  by  his  guilty  passion,  he  said  these  words,  and  did  not  feel 
that  the  Lie  of  his  heart  was  written  upon  his  forehead,  darkened  by  the 
swollen  veins. 

"  Mercy  !  I  am  but  a  poor  weak  girl — alone  in  the  world — " 

With  a  last  effort,  she  endeavored  to  free  her  lip  from  his  kiss,  her 
waist  from  his  tightening  arm.  The  effort  was  vain'.  Her  loosened  hair 
floated  over  his  shoulders,  as  his  kisses  burned  her  lips. 

Gilbert,  clinging  to  the  withered  limb,  beheld  the  flushed  face  of  Regi- 
nald, and  laid  one  hand  upon  the  sash  of  the  narrow  window.  His  face, 
pressed  against  the  glass,  was  hideous  with  hatred  and  despair.  One  blow 
of  his  sturdy  arm,  and  the  sash  would  fall  before  him  ;  with  his  right 
hand  he  clutched  the  knife. 

"Warm  kisses — "  Gilbert  muttered  through  his  set  teeth  — "Hah! 
There  is  a  gay  dress  beneath  your  coarse  gray  coat — a  spangled  dress  of 
silk  and  di'monds.  By  *  *  *  !  I'll  make  it  gayer  and  brighter  with 
your  " 

The  Huntsman,  laying  one  hand  upon  the  sash,  grasping  the  knife  with 
the  other,  his  eye  dilating  as  it  was  rivetted  by  the  scene  within  the  cham- 
ber, felt  the  withered  limb  bend  beneath  him.  With  an  oath,  he  endea- 
vored to  grasp  a^  higher  branch  of  the  tree,  but  the  knife  fell  from  his 
hand,  as  the  withered  limb,  with  a  sudden  crash,  snapped  under  his 
weight. 

He  fell ;  the  knife  clattered  upon  a  heavy  mass  of  granite  at  the  foot  of 

10 


146  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

the  tree.  For  an  instant  the  Huntsman  saw  nothing  but  a  vague  blank, 
heard  nothing  but  the  echo  of  the  snapping  branch.  When  he  recovered 
his  consciousness,  he  found  himself  hanging  by  the  arms  to  the  lowest 
limb  of  the  huge  chesnut,  his  feet  dangling  near  the  earth.  Above  him 
shone  the  window  of  Madeline's  room. 

"  Curses  on  it !  I'm  crazy,  I  believe !  To  lose  my  hold  at  sich  a  mo- 
ment!  They  are  watchin'  me,  too — watchin'  from  yonder  thicket.  But 
it  does  not  need  their  watchin'  to  make  me  go  forrad  now.'" 

Releasing  his  hold,  he  fell  on  his  feet,  picked  the  knife  from  the  stone, 
and,  placing  it  between  his  teeth,  began  to  ascend  the  tree.  Once,  as  he 
clomb  from  limb  to  limb,  he  turned  his  head  over  his  shoulder.  Through 
the  clear  heavens  the  moon  was  shining  brightly.  The  farm-house,  the 
thicket  near,  and  the  distant  woods,  were  darkly  contrasted  with  the  glitter- 
ing waste  of  pure  white  snow. 

"  They  watch  me  from  the  thicket !"  muttered  Gilbert,  as  he  sprang 
upon  a  limb,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  interior  of  Madeline's 
chamber.  As  the  stout  Huntsman,  whose  brain  was  somewhat  bewildered 
by  the  events  of  this  crowded  night,  looked  through  the  window  panes, 
an  oath  escaped  from  his  lips. 

He  saw  that  chamber  by  the  rays  of  the  lamp,  the  bed  yet  bearing  the 
impress  of  the  maiden's  form,  the  quaint,  old-fashioned  furniture,  the 
dressing-bureau,  and  the  door  which  led  into  the  corridor  of  the  farm- 
house. 

But  neither  Madeline — nor  her  seducer  were  visible. 

From  the  limb— on  which  Gilbert  poised  his  weight,  grasping  a  branch 
above  him — to  the  window,  was  a  dangerous  leap,  but  he  did  not  pause  to 
think.  With  a  desperate  bound  he  reached  the  window,  dashed  the  sash 
before  him— it  hung  on  hinges  and  opened  like  a  door — and  in  an  instant 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  chamber,  beside  the  maiden's  bed. 

All  was  silent  there. 

"  They've  gone  together — she  has  fled  with  him — "  the  features  of  the 
Hunter,  distorted  by  rage,  became  softened  suddenly  by  a  look  of  rude 
but  unutterable  anguish.  "Mad'lin'  !  This  is  a  little  too  hard  to  bear.  So 
gfood  and  pure  as  you  was,  that  an  angel  couldn't  scarcely  be  a  better 
thing — Now — in  a  few  hours — all  your  goodness  gone  " 

He  clenched  the  knife,  and  gazed  wildly  round  the  chamber. 

"  Yer  Bible's  thar,  gal — and  you  could  do  it !    Leave  the  man  tnat  'ud 

'a  torn  his  heart  into  splinters  for  you  But  it's  his  work,  his  devil's 

tongue  " 

He  turned,  and,  with  a  cry  of  surprise  mingled  with  hatred,  beheld  that 
the  door  leading  into  the  corridor  was  open. 

"I'll  follow  you,  my  fine  feller,  and  paint  yer  spangled  feathers  with 
yer  blood !" 

As  he  rushed  to  the  door,  his  purpose — it  was  Murder — written  on  his 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


147 


face,  a  sound  that  was  scarcely  audible,  so  low,  and  like  the  echo  of  a 
rustling  leaf,  arrested  his  footsteps. 

Again  he  turned,  and,  near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  beheld  the  unconscious 
form  of  Madeline.  She  was  stretched  upon  the  floor;  her  eyes  were 
closed  ;  her  arras  lay  stiffened  by  her  side.  The  dress  had  been  torn 
from  her  bosom  by  a  rude  grasp;  upon  those  globes,  whose  veins,  like 
threads  of  azure,  were  traced  beneath  the  transparent  skin,  the  livid  print 
of  a  brutal  hand  was  visible. 

Gilbert  knelt  beside  her.  His  face  was  from  the  light,  which  streamed 
over  the  back  of  his  head,  glowing  upon  his  chesnut  curls.  The  agony 
that  convulsed  his  features  was  lost  in  the  shadow. 

No  groan  came  from  his  compressed  lips  ;  perchance  the  light  of  con- 
tending love  and  hatred  grew  deeper  and  wilder  in  his  eyes,  but  not  a 
sound  betrayed  his  agony. 

"  Beautiful  gal,  with  yer  brown  hair  about  yer  pale  face,  an'  that  bosom, 
which,  as  much  as  I  loved  you,  and  as  often  as  you  had  said  you'd 
be  my  wife,  I  never  yit  dared  to  touch,  or  look  upon — an'  that  bosom 
bare,  with  the  print  of  his  hand  upon  it.  Beautiful !  An  Angel  fresh 
from  'tother  world  couldn't  be  purtier;  but—" 

The  knife  which  he  grasped,  rested  its  shining  point  upon  the  floor. 

At  once  the  memory  of  his  strange  mission  came  over  the  hunter  he 

trembled  like  a  man  who  beholds  some  horrible  Apparition  rising  by  his 
bed  at  dead  of  night. 

"  She  don't  breathe.    It's  likely  that  she's  dead  already.    As  it  is, 

she'll  only  wake  up  to  misery  and  shame  By  *  *  *,  I  think  it  'ud 

be  a  blessed  thing  to  kill  her !' 

The  bosom  moved  —  very  slightly— with  a  pulsation  as  gentle  as  the 
motion  of  a  feather,  agitated  by  a  sleeper's  breath.  And  as  it  fluttered 
with  that  soft  motion,  Gilbert  beheld  a  faded  ribbon,  wound  about  the 
neck  of  the  insensible  girl.  To  this  ribbon  was  attached  a  small  coin, 
which  lay  upon  her  breast,  and  rose  with  the  almost  imperceptible  pulsa- 
tion. The  huntsman  lifted  her  head,  and  took  the  ribbon  from  her  neck. 
In  the  action  his  hand  encountered  her  luxuriant  tresses,  and  the  strong 
man  felt  the  tears  start  into  his  eyes.  Not  for  the  world,  or  the  wealth  of 
a  thousand  worlds,  would  he  have  touched  that  bosom. 

M  It  was  stainless  once — pure  as  the  drifted  snow — now — " 

Holding  the  small  coin,  or  medal,  toward  the  light,  he  endeavored  in 
vain  to  decipher  the  strange  figures  which  were  inscribed  upon  its  surface. 
The  metal  was  gold ;  it  was  very  bright,  and  worn  smooth  as  glass,  as  by 
the  pressure  of  countless  hands. 

"  I  can't  read  it,  gal,  but  I'll  take  it  as  a  memory  of  you — " 

In  silence  he  wound  the  ribbon  round  his  neck,  and  then,  with  a  qui- 
vering hand,  placed  the  point  of  the  knife  upon  her  bosom. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Covenant—"  he  gasped,  and  at  the  same  moment 


149 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


the  girl  unclosed  her  eyes.  She  beheld  that  face,  convulsed  with  agony, 
wet  with  tears  ;  she  felt  the  sharp  point  of  the  knife. 

Behind  the  hunter,  with  a  stealthy  footstep,  which  he  did  not  hear, 
came  the  bent  figure  of  an  old  man,  whose  blue  eyes  shone  with  a  cold, 
icy  light,  as  he  beheld  the  knife  resting  upon  the  beautiful  bosom  of 
Madeline. 

"  Gilbert !"  even  in  that  moment  of  half-consciousness  she  knew  him. 

Nearer  stole  the  old  man,  his  pale  face  writhing  in  every  nerve. 

"It  ain't  no  use  now,  Mad'lin'  — "  said  the  Hunter,  his  face  glooming 
with  a  profound  despair — "  It's  too  late  !" 

His  hand  was  upon  the  hilt — and  the  blood  started,  as  the  point  entered 
the  white  breast  of  Madeline. 

A  sound  of  half-suppressed  laughter  disturbed  the  silence,  and  in  the 
door-way  appeared  the  rotund  form  and  white-bearded  face  of  the  jovial 
Peter  Dorfner. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEENTH. 

THE  INSCRIPTION  ON  THE  ANCIENT  COIN. 

"For  Good  or  for  Evil?"  muttered  the  Unknown,  whom  we  can  only 
call  by  his  own  title — The  Invisible  Head  of  the  Brotherhood. 

His  hour  of  silent  thought  was  over ;  a  slight  flush  warmed  his  fea- 
tures, as  he  glanced  around  the  silent  cell.  The  hanging  lamp  still  cast 
its  faint  rays  over  the  gloom,  and  lighted  up  that  solitary  figure  seated  by 
the  table,  his  cheeks  buried  in  his  hands. 

"  A  footstep — one  only — is  it  the  footstep  of  Gilbert  Morgan  ?  Does 
he  return  alone  ?    Has  he  braved  the  peril  of  the  Ordeal  ?" 

While  these  thoughts,  only  half-spoken,  occupied  the  mind  of  the  Invi- 
sible, the  footstep  grew  more  distinct — a  figure  approached  from  the  dark- 
ness of  the  cell — a  clanging  sound  disturbed  the  stillness  of  the  place. 

A  knife  lay  on  the  table,  before  the  gaze  of  the  Invisible, 

At  first,  he  did  not  notice  the  wretched  man  who  stood  before  him,  his 
muscular  form  agitated  by  an  involuntary  tremor,  his  gay  apparel  of  green 
and  gold  torn  and  disordered.  Nor  did  he  remark  the  cadaverous  face, 
whose  livid  cheeks  only  made  the  wild  eyes  and  restless  lips  more  pain- 
fully distinct. 

His  eyes  rested  upon  the  knife,  as,  grasping  the  hilt,  he  raised  it  in  the 
light. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


149 


"It  is  well!" 

The  blade  was  red ;  it  shone  no  longer ;  but,  as  the  Invisible  held  it  in 
his  grasp,  a  blood-drop,  oozing  from  the  point,  fell  on  the  table. 

"  Is  it  done  ? — "  he  surveyed  the  horror-stricken  features  of  the 
Hunter. 

The  wretched  man  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  without  success.  The 
muscles  of  his  throat  writhed  convulsively,  his  lips  moved  as  if  agitated 
by  a  spasm,  but  he  could  not  utter  a  syllable. 

He  pointed  to  the  knife,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart.  There  was 
something  impressive  in  his  silence  ;  something  of  fearful  eloquence  in 
his  agitated  face,  and  sunburnt  hand,  pressed  forcibly  upon  his  chest. 

"  I  need  not  ask  you  ;  the  Ordeal  was  fearful,  but  you  have  passed  it 
like  a  Man.    Yes,  like  a  Brother  of  the  Covenant." 

"  He  has,"  said  a  voice,  speaking  from  the  dark  recesses  of  the  cell — 
"  I  saw  him  strike  the  blow." 

"  And  I  also  beheld  the  knife  as  it  pierced  her  bosom"  —  another  voice 
was  heard. 

Shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  the  Invisible  gazed  in  the  direction 
from  whence  these  sounds  proceeded,  and  beheld  the  rotund  form  of  Peter 
Dormer,  with  his  slender  companion  by  his  side. 

"  Retire  !"  he  said — "  and  at  the  proper  signal,  conduct  the  late  Grand 
Master  to  this  cell." 

The  echo  of  their  footsteps  presently  died  away. 

It  was  with  an  expression  of  pity,  imbittered  by  scorn,  that  the  Invisi- 
ble looked  into  the  face  of  Gilbert  Morgan. 

"  And  so  you  buried  your  knife  in  her  bosom  ?  You  loved  her,  too  ; 
loved  her  in  a  rude  way,  but  with  all  your  soul.  Did  your  hand  tremble, 
as  your  victim  crouched  at  your  feet,  and  saw  the  steel  flash  over  her  ere 
it  fell?" 

Gilbert  did  not.  speak.  Trembling,  pale,  his  hands  hanging  motionless 
by  his  side,* he  looked  vacantly  into  the  face  of  the  Invisible. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  I  can  imagine  the  scene.  You  found  her,  with 
the  kiss  of  her  lover  yet  warm  upon  her  lip.  In  her  own  chamber,  with 
her  attire  disordered,  and  her  cheek  flushed  with  passion.  There  were 
bitter  words  between  you — fierce  reproaches  on  your  part,  sullen  replies 
from  her  lips.  Yet  no  impulse  of  love,  no  touch  of  compassion,  held 
you  back  in  your  work  of  murder.  She  knelt  to  you — a  very  beautiful 
thing  it  must  have  been — a  kneeling  girl,  with  her  brown  hair  floating 
over  her  bare  bosom.  '  Gilbert !'  she  cried,  speaking  in  the  same  voice 
which  not  long  ago  thrilled  your  heart-strings.  But  there  was  no  mercy 
in  your  eye — resolved  to  do  the  deed,  you  raised  your  arm,  and  mangled 
the  bosom  that  heaved  before  you.—" 

The  hunter  tottered  backward,  and,  sinking  on  one  knee,  suffered  his 
face  to  droop  toward  the  floor. 


150 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


The  Invisible  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  was  silent  for  a 
moment. 

"  Yet  let  me  ask  another  question.  Was  the  girl  who  received  her 
death  at  your  hands  a  pure  or  a  dishonored  thing  ?" 

Bending  over  the  table,  he  saw  the  kneeling  form  rock  to  and  fro,  but 
received  no  answer  to  his  question. 

"  Ah — I  perceive  the  truth  of  this  matter.  She  was  dishonored — you 
could  not  have  plunged  your  knife  into  a  virgin  heart." 

Gilbert's  face  was  lifted  toward  the  light,  every  feature  agitated  by  a 
speechless  despair.  Again  his  lips  moved,  but  he  could  not  frame  a 
sound. 

"  Where  did  you  leave  the  body  V 

Tottering  to  his  feet,  the  Hunter  advanced  one  step  forward,  and  flung 
his  clenched  hand  upon  the  table. 

"Look  ye — "  he  cried,  his  voice  husky  and  indistinct — "Isn't  it 
enough  that  I've  done  your  devil's  work  ?  Even  if  you  are  a  born  devil, 
you  might  have  a  little  pity  for  me.  You  told  me  to  kill  her— I've  done 
it.  Thar  is  the  knife,  and  here  I  am.  If  you've  anythin'  more  for  me 
to  do,  jest  say  it.  Arter  this  night's  work,  I  don't  know  the  thing  that 
I'm  afeerd  to  do.    Speak  out — speak  out — " 

"  Where  did  you  leave  the  body  ?"  repeated  the  Invisible,  waving  his 
hand  with  a  peculiar  motion,  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  huntsman's 
face. 

As  though  that  waving  hand,  those  eyes,  fired  with  peculiar  light,  had 
been  the  outward  indications  of  a  supernatural  power,  the  Hunter's  fea- 
tures became  suddenly  rigid,  his  eyes  fixed  and  glassy,  his  form  stiff  and 
motionless. 

Like  a  dead  man  placed  in  an  erect  posture,  he  stood  beside  the  table, 
while  the  Invisible  surveyed  his  stiffened  form  and  rigid  face,  with  a  calm 
delight,  or  rather  a  look  of  smiling  complacency. 

"  Where  did  you  leave  the  body  ?" 

The  lips  of  the  Hunter  moved  languidly,  while  every  other  feature  was 
rigid  as  the  features  of  the  dead. 

"  In  her  own  room — "  said  Gilbert,  speaking  no  longer  in  his  blunt 
woodsman's  accent,  but  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  indicate  a  man  of  edu- 
cation and  refined  manners.  "  In  her  own  room,  with  her  bosom  covered 
with  her  blood,  and  her  glassy  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ceiling." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  obey  me  now — obey  me  in  every  command,  with- 
out a  look  or  gesture  of  disobedience  ?" 

"I  am  !" 

The  Invisible  knocked  thrice  upon  the  table  with  the  hilt  of  the  knife, 
and  ere  the  sound  had  died  away,  the  form  of  the  Grand  Master,  clad  in 
the  glittering  robes  of  his  office,  advanced  from  the  shadows.  His 
bronzed  features  were  dimly  discernible  through  the  lace  veil  which  flut- 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


151 


tered  from  his  forehead.  As  he  came  near,  the  Invisible  drew  the  cowl 
over  his  face. 

"  Take  the  coronet  from  your  brow." 

The  Grand  Master  lifted  the  coronet  of  golden  leaves  from  his  fore- 
head, and  with  it  the  slender  plume  and  white  veil.  His  face  was  re- 
vealed. The  features  were  not  altogether  unhandsome ;  their  regular 
outlines,  relieved  by  dark  hair — powdered  and  curled  after  the  fashion  of 
the  time — indicated  a  proud  and  sensual  nature.  But  at  this  moment,  the 
eyes  shone  wildly  with  terror,  and  the  forehead  was  damp  with  moisture. 

"  What  would  you  ?"  he  exclaimed,  in  tones  by  no  means  calm  or  firm. 

"Place  the  coronet  upon  the  brow  of  the  Grand  Master  Elect—"  the 
white  hand  of  the  Invisible  pointed  toward  Gilbert's  rigid  face. 

It  was  with  a  look  of  terror  that  the  deposed  Grand  Master  obeyed. 
His  terror  was  not  without  sufficient  cause,  for  the  glassy  eyeballs  and 
fixed  features  of  Gilbert  resembled  the  face  of  a  corse.  His  hand  trem- 
bled as  he  wound  the  golden  leaves  about  the  brown  hair  of  the  hunter, 
and  arranged  the  plume  over  his  forehead,  and  saw  his  ghostly  face,  but 
half-concealed  by  the  veil. 

The  deposed  Grand  Master  turned  once  more  to  the  cowled  figure. 

"  The  Robe — "  and  again  the  white  hand  was  stretched  toward  Gil- 
bert's form. 

There  was  a  glance  of  sullen  regret,  a  momentary  flashing  of  the  eye 
and  curling  of  the  lip,  as  the  gorgeously  arrayed  personage  heard  this  de- 
cided command. 

•  The  Robe — "  the  voice  of  the  Invisible  was  stern  and  penetrating. 

The  Grand  Master  seemed  to  hesitate,  but  in  an  instant  stripping  the 
purple  garment,  glittering  with  the  dagger,  the  skull,  the  vine  leaves,  and 
other  emblems,  from  his  shoulders,  his  form  was  disclosed,  attired  in  the 
costume  of  a  man  of  the  world.  A  wide-skirted  coat,  fringed  with  lace, 
silken  vest  and  cambric  ruffles — he  was  altogether  an  elegant  and  finished 
gentleman. 

"Place  it  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  Grand  Master — " 
No  slave,  crouching  under  fear  of  his  master's  lash,  could  have  obeyed 
more  readily  than  the  deposed  Grand  Master,  for  he  inserted  Gilbert's 
arms  in  the  flowing  sleeves,  and  fastened  the  garment  over  his  broad  chest, 
without  a  word. 

Gilbert  stood  arrayed  in  the  robes  of  the  Grand  Master  of  the  B.  H.  A. 
C,  his  rigid  features  seen — through  the  veil — with  a  half-distinctness,  that 
only  made  them  look  more  unnatural  and  death-like. 

The  late  Grand  Master,  with  the  moisture  starting  from  his  forehead, 
every  line  of  his  face  agitated  by  fear,  awaited  in  sullen  silence  the  com- 
mands of  the  Invisible. 

"  To-morrow  morning  a  ship  sails  from  the  City,  on  a  voyage  to  Can- 
ton.   You  will  take  passage  on  board  of  that  ship,  and  "  he  drew 


152  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

a  letter  from  his  monkish  gown — "  obey  the  orders  contained  in  this 
paper.  You  can  now  retire.  Brethren — "  looking  toward  the  form  of 
Dorfner  and  his  companion — "  I  leave  this  man  to  your  charge." 

The  deposed  Grand  Master  turned,  without  a  word,  and  disappeared 
in  the  shadows. 

Once  more  the  Invisible  was  alone  with  Gilbert  Morgan. 

"Cast  your  eye  into  the  Hall  of  the  Grand  Lodge,"  said  the  cowled 
Figure — "  What  do  you  see  and  hear?" 

This  command  seems  like  an  idle  mockery  to  us.  For  thick  walls  and 
dreary  passages  separate  this  cell  from  the  Hall  in  which  the  Grand 
Lodge  are  assembled.  Yet  the  answer  of  Gilbert,  conveyed  in  the  lan- 
guage of  an  educated  man,  was  plain  and  to  the  point — 

"  The  lights  are  burning  fast  toward  their  sockets.  The  Brothers  look 
toward  the  door,  and  murmur  the  name  of  the  Grand  Master.  They 
await  his  coming  with  feverish  suspense.  Stay  !  A  Brother  rises,  and 
exclaims — [  Shall  we  not  close  this  session  of  the  .Grand  Lodge,  without 
the  presence  of  the  Grand  Master  V  " 

"  It  is  well — "  and  a  smile  stole  over  the  face  of  the  Invisible—"  The 
fools  of  the  world  would  call  this  Magic,  or,  perchance,  doubt  that  it  ever 
occurred.  So,  three  hundred  years,  or  scarce  three  hundred  years  ago,  it 
was  Sorcery  on  the  part  of  Galileo  to  say  that  the  earth  moved  round  the 
sun.  That  Sorcery  is  now  become  Science.  And  ere  an  hundred  years, 
this  Magic,  which  enables  me  to  substitute  my  will  for  the  will  of  this 
rude  man, — in  a  word,  to  fill  his  brain  with  my  soul,  will  be  no  longer 
the  wisdom  of  the  devil,  but  the  system  of  an  acknowledged  Science.  So 
goes  the  world !" 

It  was  almost  demoniac  in  its  scorn — the  cold  smile  which  agitated  the 
face  of  the  Invisible. 

"  You  will  go  without  delay  to  the  Hall  of  the  Grand  Lodge,"  he  said, 
fixing  his  dazzling  eyes  upon  the  face  of  the  Hunter,  "  and  speak  the 
words  that  I  will  utter  to  your  heart." 

Attired  in  the  robes  of  his  office,  dazzling  from  head  to  foot  in  the 
paraphernalia  of  the  Order,  Gilbert  turned  away,  and,  with  measured 
steps,  departed  into  the  shadows.  Ere  a  moment  was  gone,  the  echo  of 
his  footsteps  had  ceased  to  disturb  the  silence. 

The  Invisible  laid  his  white  hand  upon  the  heavy  volume  which  rested 
upon  the  table,  as  he  pushed  the  cowl  back  from  his  forehead. 

"They  are  all  here — "  he  muttered,  as  he  unclosed  the  volume — "a 
brave  and  bloody  band,  whose  deeds  extend  over  the  history  of  two  cen- 
turies. Some  died  in  their  peaceful  beds,  encircled  by  weeping  grand- 
children— others  on  the  bloody  deck,  amid  the  smoke  and  flame  of  car- 
nage— this  rude  fellow  on  Tyburn  tree,  and  his  comrade  at  the  yard-arm 
of  one  of  his  Majesty's  ships-of-war.  Here  I  find  traced  the  crooked 
signature  of  Sir  Henry  Morgan — here,  the  clerkly  hand  of  the  bold 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


153 


Captain  Kidd — and  next  comes  the  mark  of  Blackbeard— a  roughly 
sketched  dagger,  beside  a  skull  and  cross-bones.  A  bloody  and  ferocious 
band  " 

Turning  over  the  broad  pages,  the  Invisible  continued— 

"  The  time  will  come  when  their  deeds  will  appear  but  as  the  idle 
fables  of  tradition.  Then  the  link  which  bound  all  these  cut-throats  and 
heroes  in  one  great  organization,  will  be  lost — forgotten.  Grave  men 
will  write  histories,  and  speak  of  the  buccanier — the  pirate — the  free- 
booter— as  isolated  facts  in  the  red  history  of  piracy  and  murder.  And  I 
— I — may  survive  to  read  their  grave  volumes,  and  smile  at  their  brazen 
falsehoods.    '  Survive' — it  is  a  fearful  word—" 

As  the  light  reveals  the  face  of  this  unknown  personage,  who,  seated 
alone  in  his  oaken  chair,  thus  mutters  absently  to  himself,  we  may  see 
the  pale  features  quiver  in  every  line  ;  yes,  we  may  even  behold  the  large 
bright  eyes,  wet  with  womanish  tears. 

"  Survive  !  It  is  indeed  a  horrible  word.  To  live  until  all  that  you 
have  loved  is  grave-yard  dust — to  live  while  every  good  impulse  is  turned 
to,  evil — to  walk  around  among  the  tombs  of  those  whom  you  knew  cen- 
turies ago — to  see  their  children,  nay,  the  descendants  of  your  own 
children,  rise  every  day  in  your  path,  and,  at  the  same  time,  be  conscious 
that  they  can  never  know  you,  never  call  you  by  name,  never,  never  feel 
for  you  a  sentiment  that  is  not  hatred  and  loathing. — '  Survive  !'  Yes, 
until  the  words  '  our  Lord  the  King'  are  displaced  by  '  our  Brother,  the 
Chief  of  the  Republic' — and  until  the  4  Republic'  is  crushed  beneath  the 
iron  wheels  of  Despotism  and  Superstition.  There  are  a  great  many 
things  embodied  in  that  word — '  Survive  !' " 

The  Invisible  started  from  the  chair,  and  paced  along  the  floor  of  the 
cell.  For  the  first  time  it  is  evident  to  us  that  his  pale  face,  whose  tan- 
gled hair  waves  from  Beneath  the  cowl,  is  supported  by  a  strangely  distorted 
form.  Even  through  the  disguise  of  the  gown,  we  may  discover  the  out- 
lines of  a  shapeless  hump,  rising  at  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  his  face  seems 
not  so  much  to  be  supported  by  a  neck,  as  to  rest  upon  the  surface  of  his 
broad  chest. 

"Always  to  feel  the  beauty  of  the  Good,  and  to  love  it,  and  yet  for  ever 
condemned  to  the  Necessity  of  Evil.  What  hell  of  priestcraft  can  rival 
a  doom  like  this  ?  Even  now  I  behold  a  mariner,  fixed  upon  a  shapeless 
raft,  without  rudder,  oar,  or  sail,  his  eye  turned  toward  the  light  which 
shines  from  the  dark  shore.  He  may  gaze  upon  the  light,  stretch  forth 
his  arms  as  if  to  grasp  it,  but  every  moment  the  tide  is  bearing  him  silently 
and  surely  away — away,  deeper  and  farther  into  the  blackness  and  the 
night.  The  fate  of  the  mariner  js  mine.  The  raft  is  beneath  my  feet, — 
the  light  shines  faintly  from  the  shore — but  every  moment  the  dark  wave 
of  Necessity  bears  me  farther  into  the  blackness  of  hopeless  night.  The 
light  is  growing  dim  and  dimmer— soon  it  will  go  out  in  blackness — yet 


154  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

still  the  wave  will  bear  me  on,  on,  into  that  Sea  of  hopeless  Evil  which 

yawns  beyond  me  !" 

The  cowl  was  thrown  aside,  and  with  the  cowl,  the  monkish  gown. 
Beneath  the  light  stood  a  deformed  hunchback,  whose  long  face,  framed 
in  raven  black  hair,  revealed,  in  every  quivering  lineament,  a  despair  too 
deep  for  utterance,  too  hopeless  for  tears. 

In  the  personage  known  as  the  Invisible,  we  beheld  none  other  than 
the  miserable  maniac,  whom  we  have  beheld  before,  and  heard  addressed 
by  the  name  of  Black  David. 

Clasping  his  white  hands,  as  that  unutterable  despair  stamps  his  face, 
he  glares  upon  the  darkness  with  fixed  eyeballs,  muttering  again,  and  yet 
again,  the  word  which  has  roused  him  into  this  preternatural  anguish — 

"'Survive.'" 

In  the  very  midst  of  this  inexplicable  despair,  his  eyes  wandered  to 
the  floor — a  bright  object  glimmered  there,  near  his  feet.  Without 
appearing  conscious  of  the  action,  he  bent  down  and  grasped  it,  and  the 
light  disclosed  a  small  golden  coin  or  medal,  to  which  a  faded  ribbon  was 
attached. 

No  sooner  did  the  hunchback  behold  it,  and  at  a  glance  read  the  words, 
and  mark  the  characters  which  were  inscribed  upon  this  medal,  then  he 
sank  on  his  knees,  uttering  a  cry  of  joy,  which  pealed  upon  the  stillness 
of  the  cell.  With  the  gestures  of  a  madman,  he  clutched  the  medal — 
turned  first  one  side,  then  the  other,  to  the  light,  and  examined  it  with  an 
intense  scrutiny,  that  forced  his  eyeballs  from  their  sockets. 

"  Here,  where  the  hunter  stood,  I  found  it.  Ah— I  will  seek  him  at 
once,  and  force  him  to  reveal  to  me  how  it  came  into  his  possession."  He 
started  to  his  feet,  made  one  step  from  the  table,  but  as  suddenly  came 
back  again.  # 

"  It  is  the  same — the  same — "  and  lifting  the  tangled  locks,  as  he  gazed 
upon  the  medal,  he  revealed  the  livid  cross,  which  was  stamped — like  the 
scar  of  a  wound — upon  the  fair  skin  of  his  forehead. 

He  examined  the  bright  side  of  the  Medal— it  bore  the  figure  of  a  Cross, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  155 

with  certain  numerals  inscribed  beneath — "  a.  d.  15 — 9."  Then,  turning 
the  medal,  he  beheld,  on  the  opposite  side,  an  inscription  in  old  English 
characters:  "  Eola — November  12.  —  Lyndulfe." 

It  may  be  observed  that  the  figure  between  the  5  and  6,  on  the  first  side 
of  the  medal,  was  dim  and  almost  illegible.  It  seemed,  as  the  light  shone 
over  it,  to  represent  either  the  figure  3  or  8,  and  thus  the  inscription  either 
designated  the  year  1539  or  1589. 

The  hunchback  held  the  faded  ribbon,  which  was  inserted  in  an  aper- 
ture near  the  rim  of  the  medal,  and  gazed  upon  the  inscription  which  it 
bore  on  either  side,  with  a  delight  that  might  have  well  been  termed 
madness. 

"  I  will  to  him — he  shall  tell  me  !"  With  these  incoherent  words,  he 
turned  from  the  table  once  again,  and  disappeared  in  the  shadows  of  the 
cell,  only  to  reappear  after  the  lapse  of  a  moment.  When  he  turned  from 
the'  light,  his  face  was  flushed  with  rapture,  but,  when  he  again  stood 
beside  the  table,  a  ghastly  paleness  had  fallen  upon  every  feature.  The 
livid  cross  on  his  forehead  stood  out  distinctly  on  the  colorless  skin. 

"  Madeline — the  hunter  has  torn  it  from  her  breast  as  a  memory  of  his 
love — "  he  uttered  the  words  with  difficulty.  Then  came  a  groan  of  hor- 
ror, mingled  with  anguish. 

"  0,  curses,  eternal  curses  upon  my  iron  fate  !  Madeline  at  this  moment 
lies  mangled  upon  the  floor  of  her  chamber,  or — in  case  she  survived  the 
hunter's  blow — the  scalpel  of  Isaac  Behme  pierces  her  bosom,  and  tears 
the  living  heart  from  its  shrine  !" 

As  though  his  blood  was  chilled,  his  limbs  paralyzed,  the  deformed 
maniac  stood  motionless,  with  his  hands  folded  over  his  breast. 

"  Day  is  breaking,  and  it  is  too  late  !  This  girl  might  have  saved  me, 
not  from  Death,  but  from  Life ;  saved  me  from  the  unseen  hand  which 
crushes  me ; — she  might  have  spoken  unto  me  the  word  which  will 
bring  near  the  hour  of  my  Death — and  I, — fool,  dotard !  I  have  mur- 
dered her !" 

Once  more  his  gaze  was  rivetted  to  the  medal — 

"  Many,  many  years — centuries  of  torture — since  first  it  passed  from 
my  hand — ah  !  It  is  in  vain  ;  I  cannot  pray.  To  whom  shall  I  address 
a  Prayer  ?  At  this  hour  I  would  barter  the  gold  of  a  world — I  would 
exchange  intellect  and  destiny  with  the  vilest  serf,  only  to-be  able  to  believe, 
only  to  have  the  power  to  frame  one  word  of  prayer  " 

Strange  and  incomprehensible  words  from  the  lips  of  the  Deformed 
Maniac ! 

He  was  on  his  knees,  his  hands  crossed,  his  head  bowed — his  lips 
moved  slowly,  but  no  sound  was  heard. 

The  light,  streaming  above  him,  glowed  upon  the  flakes  of  his  matted 
hair.  His  face  was  lost  in  shadow,  but  the  heavings  of  his  broad  chest 
betrayed  the  emotion  that  thrilled  every  avenue  of  his  life. 


156  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  To  whom  shall  I  pray?"  he  muttered,  after  a  pause — "To  God? 
To  Christ?  To  saints  or  angels  ?" — his  voice  was  marked  by  a  horrible 
sincerity  as  he  continued — "There  is  no  God  to  me.  No  Christ,  nor 
Saint  nor  Angel.  There  is  no  other  world.  There  is  nothing  beyond 
the  grave  but  vacancy  and  slumber.  All  that  I  can  believe,  is,  that  I  am 
here  upon  the  earth,  doomed  to  live  with  impulses  of  good  always  strug- 
gling in  my  heart,  and  yet  always  forced  to  do  Evil — to  crush  pure  hearts 
into  hopeless  misery — to  blight  virtue  and  beauty — to  taint  children  with 
the  leprosy  of  sin,  and  wither  gray-haired  age  into  a  polluted  grave.  This 
is  my  doom — what  hath  prayer  to  do  with  me  ?" 

Let  us  suppose  for  a  moment  that  the  reveries  of  this  man  are  sober 
truth.  That  he  has  lived  for  some  hundreds  of  years,  with  the  impulse 
of  Good  always  fresh  within  his  heart,  and  yet  the  Necessity  to  do  Evil 
for  ever  hurling  him  into  the  vortex  of  crime.  That  for  some  incredible 
crime — say,  the  most  fearful  crime  that  Man  can  commit — he  has  been 
doomed  to  live,  and  live  beyond  the  circle  of  Almighty  compassion. 
That  the  death  which  he  seeks  as  an  unutterable  boon  is  denied. him — 
that  the  Judgment  pronounced  by  Eternal  Power  upon  his  head  is  com- 
prised in  this  stern  decree — 

"Live!  There  is  Good  all  around  you,  but  you  must  blight  it  into 
Evil.  Live!" 

Can  any  thing  be  more  horrible  than  this  ? 

Once  more,  let  us  take  it  for  granted  that  this  deformed  hunchback  is  a 
Madman.  That  it  is  only  a  fancy — a  mere  dream  of  frenzy — that  he  has 
lived  for  centuries,  and  is  doomed  to  live  until  unborn  ages  are  past. 
That  it  is  only  a  vagary  of  his  distorted  reason,  which  induces  him  to 
believe  that  for  him  there  is  no  God,  no  Christ,  no  Saint  nor  Angel. 

Can  any  thing  in  the  Universe  be  more  appalling  than  this? 

To  both  questions,  your  first  answer,  urged  from  your  heart,  by  feeling 
as  natural  as  our  love  for  a  Mother,  is,  simply  but  earnestly — "  No  !" 

Think  again.  Pause  for  a  moment.  What  does  the  Creed  of  a  Church, 
the  dogma  of  a  sect  hold  forth  ? 

That  the  Almighty  Father  will  inflict  upon  countless  millions  of  his 
creatures,  the*  irrevocable  Judgment  of  an  Eternity  of  Existence,  and  an 
Eternity  of  Crime. 

Which  is  the  most  repulsive,  my  friend  ?  The  tradition  embodied  in 
this  crude  history,  or  the  Belief  solemnly  taught  in  the  dogma  of  a 
Church? 

"Behold — "  said-  a  Reverend  man,  one  Sabbath-day,  as  he  surveyed 
the  thousand  faces,  mellowed  by  the  mild  beams  of  an  afternoon  sun — 
"  Behold  the  sands  that  stretch  beside  the  waves  of  the  Ocean.  Can  you 
number  those  sands  ?  Once  every  thousand  years,  a  little  bird  comes  to 
the  shore,  and  bears  away  in  its  beak  a  single  grain  of  sand.  Compute 
the  years  which  will  be  passed  ere  the  bird  has  borne  away  the  sands  on 


THUj  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


157 


the  shore— one  grain  in  a  thousand  years— and  you  will  have  some  idea 
of  the  duration  of  that  Eternity  of  woe  which  awaits  the  Damned." 

This,  it  will  be  admitted,  is  a  somewhat  fearful  figure — a  somewhat 
fearful  kind  of  Religion.  While  the  little  bird  bears  the  sands  from  the 
shore, — one  grain,  only  one,  in  a  thousand  years— countless  millions  of 
God's  creatures  are  growing  older  in  deathless  torture,  older  in  infernal 
knowledge,  in  blasphemous  Crime.  Can  you  imagine  the  depravity 
of  a  Soul  that  has  existed  for  only  a  thousand  years  in  Misery  and 
Crime  ? 

Then  do  not  too  hastily  deride  this  Legend  of  olden  tradition,  which 
asserts,  that  once,  in  the  history  of  the  world,  a  Man,  created  by  the  all- 
paternal  God,  was  condemned  to  live  for  ever  on  this  earth  ;  to  live  at 
least  while  Three  Centuries  went  down  to  Night ;  and,  feeling  all  the 
while  the  beauty  of  the  Good  and  the  Pure,  was  impelled  by  an  involun- 
tary Necessity  to  the  Evil  and  Corrupt. 

To  our  Legend  once  more. 

The  Invisible,  kneeling  on  the  floor,  raised  his  forehead,  darkened  by 
the  livid  cross,  to  the  light.  His  eyes,  dazzling  at  all  times,  as  with  the 
light  of  a  wrecked  mind,  were  raised  to  the  dusky  ceiling.  Over  his  chest 
were  clasped  his  pale  hands,  and  a  slight  air  tossed  his  flaky  locks  gently 
to  and  fro.  Never  for  an  instant  did  he  suffer  the  medal  to  escape  from 
his  grasp. 

He  was  but  a  miserable  wretch,  with  a  body  whose  deformity  was  as 
grotesque  as  it  was  hideous,  and  yet  his  face,  marked  with  ineffaceable 
lines,  his  eyes  shining  with  intense  light,  his  broad  forehead,  marked  by 
the  livid  Cross,  indicate  an  intellect  of  remarkable  power. 

Around  him  brooded  the  shadows  and  the  silence  of  the  cell,  sunken 
deep  within  the  hill-side  of  Wissahikon.  He  was  shut  out  from  the 
world,  alone  with  the  incredible  reality  of  his  fate. 

"  Could  I  but  believe—"  that  voice,  whose  musical  accents  so  singu- 
larly contrasted  with  the  hideousness  of  his  form — "  Could  I  but  believe 
in  a  Father !" 

There  were  tears  upon  his  cheeks. 

For  when  he  tried  to  raise  his^houghts  to  God,  all  was  darkness  and 
chaos.  A  leaden  sky  seemed  to  stretch  its  hopeless  wall  between  him 
and  the  Great  Father  of  mankind. 

With  a  curse,  he  started  to  his  feet,  and,  wrapping  the  mantle  about 
him,  prepared  to  hasten  from  the  place. 

"  To-night  has  been  to  me  by  no  means  an  idle  flight  of  hours  and 
minutes.  Much  work — much  Evil !  Had  I  but  known  that  Madeline 
bore  this,—  "  the  medal  glittered  before  his  eye— "This  upon  her  bosom, 
all  would  have  been  well.  A  quiet  grave — a  pleasant  repose — peace, 
peace,  after  the  long  night,  the  ceaseless  storm  of  three  centuries.    But  it 


158 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


may  not  be  too  late,  even  now — first  to  the  farm-house,  and  then  to  the 
cell  of  Isaac  Behme — " 

The  yearning  desire  that  was  written  upon  the  face  of  the  Deformed, 
no  pencil  nor  pen  can  depict — it  was  as  though  a  preternatural  Soul  had 
suddenly  filled  his  distorted  frame,  and  lighted  his  eyes  with  the  fire  of 
an  immortal  existence. 

"  The  crime  which  three  centures  has  not  effaced,  may  be  blotted  out, 
before  the  rising  of  the  sun  !" 


CHAPTER  FIFTEENTH. 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  DELIVERER. 

"He  will  come/"  muttered  the  Priest  of  Wissahikon— "At  the  third 
hour  after  midnight  the  Deliverer  will  come  /" 

The  old  man  sat  in  the  oaken  chair,  his  hands  laid  on  his  knees,  as  he 
swayed  to  and  fro  with  a  restless  motion. 

It  was  in  the  circular  chamber,  panelled  with  oaken  wainscot,  and 
rendered  almost  cheerful  by  the  wood-fire  which  blazed  upon  the  hearth. 
In  the  centre  stands  the  white  altar,  on  which  the  candles  are  placed, 
their  light,  struggling  through  the  gloom,  shining  upon  the  high  forehead 
of  the  solitary  watcher,  as,  with  his  hands  laid  on  his  knees,  he  sways 
slowly  to  and  fro,  the  silver  cross  on  his  heart,  glittering  like  a  star. 

Thus,  alone,  for  hours  he  has  watched,  his  eyes  of  an  azure  so  deep 
and  serene,  fixed  upon  the  cross  of  Iron  which  rises  in  the  gloom  beyond 
the  altar.  And  all  the  while,  as  the  old  man  kept  his  watch,  the  fire 
crackled  merrily  upon  the  hearth,  and  the  same  light  which  revealed  his 
pale  enthusiastic  face,  also  shone  upon  the  flagon  of  silver,  the  wreath  of 
laurel,  the  Bible  with  antique  clasps,  resting  between  the  candles,  on  the 
surface  of  the  altar.  f 

Without,  all  is  drear  and  cold.  The  Block-house  rises  darkly  amid 
the  pines,  with  the  moonbeam?  shining  over  the  frozen  snow.  Its  gates 
are  flung  wide  open — the  old  man  awaits  his  long-expected  guest. 

"  He  will  come  ;  at  the  third  Jwur  after  midnight,  the  Deliverer  will 
come  /" 

These  words  acquire  a  singular  interest  from  the  tone  and  look  which 
accompany  their  utterance. 

Hark — the  door  opens — the  young  man  with  the  bronzed  face  and  deep 
dark  eyes  appears — advances  to  his  father's  side. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  159 

It  is  Paul,  with  the  kiss  of  the  Wizard's  child  yet  warm  upon  his  lip, 
her  words  of  delirious  passion  yet  echoing  in  his  ears. 

Scarce  an  hour  has  passed  since  he  left  his  Father's  side— a  momentous 
hour  to  him— an  hour  that  in  future  years  shall  come,  clad  in  impressive 
memories,  to  the  Dreamer's  soul. 

As  Paul  beheld  the  pale  face  of  his  father,  with  the  high  forehead  and 
dreamy  eyes,  all  memory  of  the  Wizard's  daughter  rushed  suddenly 
from  him. 

Shall  that  enticing  memory  ever  return  to  him  again  ? 

"  Father — "  whispers  the  young  man — "  May  it  not  be  a  vain  fancy, 
after  all — this  Hope  that  the  Deliverer  will  come  ere  the  rising  of 
the  sun V 

You  can  see  the  old  man  turn  suddenly  round— his  eye  blazes  as  he 
grasps  his  son  by  the  wrist. 

"  Seventeen  years  ago,  I  left  my  father-land,  and  became  an  exile  and 
an  outcast.  Seventeen  years  ago,  I  forsook  the  towers  of  my  race,  that 
even  now  darken  over  the  bosom  of  the  Rhine.  I,  whose  name  was  en- 
nobled by  the  ancestral  glories  of  thirteen  centuries,  turned  my  back  at 
once  on  pomp,  power, — all  that  is  worshipped  by  the  herd  of  mankind. 
In  my  native  land,  they  have  believed  me  dead  for  many  years — the 
castle,  the  broad  domains  that,  by  the  world's  law,  are  yours,  my  son, 
now  own  another's  rule — and  here  we  are,  side  by  side,  in  this  rude 
temple  of  the  Wissahikon.  Why  is  this,  my  son  ? — Speak,  Paul,  and 
answer  me,  why  do  we  dwell  together,  the  father  and  his  children,  in  this 
wild  forest  of  a  strange  land  ?" 

The  son  veiled  his  eyes  with  his  clasped  hands  :  the  emotion  of  his 
father's  look  thrilled  him  to  the  soul. 

"I  will  tell  you  why!  Seventeen  years  ago,. as  I  bent  over  the  body 
of  my  dead  wife,  even  in  the  death-vault  of  our  castle,  on  the  Rhine,  the 
Voice  of  God  spake  to  my  soul — bade  me  resign  all  the  world  and  its 
toys — bade  me  take  my  children,  and  go  forth  to  a  strange  land  !" 

"And  there  await  the  Fulfilment  of  Prophecy!"  whispered  Paul, 
raising  his  head  from  his  clasped  hands. 

"  For  seventeen  years  I  have  buried  my  soul  in  the  pages  of  that 
book-" 

"  I  have  shared  your  studies,  father  !  Reared  afar  from  the  toil  and  the 
vanity  of  worldly  life,  I  have  made  my  home  with  you  in  this  hermitage. 
Together  we  have  wept — prayed— watched  over  the  pages  of  Revela- 
tion !" 

"You  have  become  part  of  my  soul,"  said  the  Priest  of  Wissahikon, 
in  a  softened  voice,  as  he  laid  his  withered  hand  upon  the  white  forehead 
of  his  son :  "  you  might  have  been  noble  in  your  native  land  ;  yes,  your 
sword  might  have  carved  for  you  a  gory  renown  from  the  corses  of  dead 
men,  butchered  in  battle  :  or  the  triumphs  of  poetry  and  art  might  have 


160  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

clothed  your  brow  in  laurel,  and  yet  you  have  chosen  your  lot  with  me  ; 
with  me,  devoted  life  and  soul  to  the  perusal  of  God's  solemn  book  !" 

The  dark  eye  of  the  son  began  to  burn  with  the  same  wild  light  that 
blazed  over  his  father's  face. 

"  And  our  studies,  our  long  and  painful  search  into  the  awful  world, 
which  the  Bible  opens  to  our  view,  has  ended  in  a  knowledge  of  these 
great  truths — The  Old  World  is  sunk  in  all  manner  of  crime,  as  was  the 
Ante-Diluvian  World  ; — the  New  World  is  given  to  man  as  a  refuge, 
even  as  the  Ark  was  given  to  Noah  and  his  children. 

"  The  New  World  is  the  last  altar  of  human  freedom  left  on  the  surface 
of  the  Globe.  Never  shall  the  footsteps  of  Kings  pollute  its  soil.  It  is  the 
last  hope  of  man.    God  has  spoken,  and  it  is  so — Amen  !" 

The  old  man's  voice  rung,  in  deep,  solemn  tones,  through  the  lonely 
room,  while  his  eye  seemed  to  burn  as  with  the  fire  of  Prophecy. 

"  The  voice  of  God  has  spoken  to  me,  in  my  thoughts  by  day,  in  my 
dreams  by  night — Iicill  send  a  Deliverer  to  this  land  of  the  Nciv  World, 
who  shall  save  my  people  from  physical  bondage,  even  as  my  Son  saved 
them  from  the  bondage  of  spiritual  death  ! 

"And  to-night  he  will  come  ;  at  the  third  hour  after  midnight,  he  will 
come  through  yonder  door,  and  take  upon  himself  his  great  Mission,  to 
free  the  New  World  from  the  yoke  of  the  Tyrant ! 

"  Yes,  my  son,  six  months  ago,  on  that  calm  summer  evening,  as,  with 
Catherine  leaning  on  one  arm,  you  on  the  other,  I  strolled  forth  along  the 
woods,  that  voice  whispered  a  message  to  my  soul !  To-night  the 
Deliverer  will  come  !" 

"All  is  ready  foi  his  coming!"  exclaimed  Paul,  advancing  to  the  altar. 
"  Behold  the  Crown,  the  Flagon  of  Anointing  Oil,  the  Bible,  and  the 
Cross!" 

The  old  man  arose,  lifting  his  withered  hands  above  his  head,  while 
the  light  streamed  over  his  silver  hairs. 

"  Even  as  the  Prophets  of  old  anointed  the  brows  of  men,  chosen  by 
God  to  do  great  deeds  in  His  name,  so  will  I, — purified  by  the  toil,  and 
prayer,  and  self-denial  of  seventeen  long  years, — anoint  the  forehead  of  the 
Deliverer ! 

Hark!  As  the  voice  of  the  aged  enthusiast,  tremulous  with  emotion, 
quivers  on  the  air,  the  clock  in  the  hall  without,  tolls  the  hour  of  One.. 
An  hour  of  the  New  Year  has  been  gathered  to  the  great  ocean  of  Eter 
nity.  Only  an  hour  ago,  as  the  tones  of  that  bell  rung  through  the  lonely 
Block-House,  like  a  voice  from  the  other  world — deep,  sad,  and  echoing 
—  the  last  minute  of  1774  sank  in  the  glass  of  Time,  and  1775  was  born. 

As  the  echo  died  away,  they  knelt  silently  beside  the  altar,  the  old  man 
and  his  son.  The  white  hairs  of  the  Priest  mingled  with  the  brown  locks 
of  Paul ;  their  hands,  clasped  together,  rested  upon  the  Bible,  which  was 
opened  at  the  Book  of  Revelations 


THE  MONK  OF.  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


1G1 


Their  separate  prayers,  breathing  in  low  whispers  from  each  lip,  min- 
gled together,  and  went  up  to  Heaven  in  one. 

An  hour  passed.  Hark  !  Do  you  hear  the  old  clock  again  ?  How 
those  sullen  sounds,  One — Two — swell  through  the  silent  halls. 

Still  they  kneel  together  there — still  the  voice  of  the  prayer  quivers 
from  each  tongue. 

After  a  pause  of  silent  prayer,  the  old  man  rises  and  paces  the  floor. 

"Place  your  hand  upon  my  heart,  my  son  !  Can*  you  feel  its  throb- 
bings  ?  Upon  my  brow — ah  !  it  burns  like  living  fire  !  The  hour  draws 
nigh — he  comes  !  Yes,  my  heart  throbs,  my  brain  fires,  but  my  faith  in 
God  is  firm — the  Deliverer  will  come  !" 

Vain  were  the  attempt  to  picture  the  silent  agony  of  that  old  man's  face! 
Call  him  dreamer — call  him  fanatic — what  you  will,  you  must  still  admit 
that  a  great  soul  throbbed  within  his  brain — still  you  must  reverence  the 
strong  heart  which  beats  within  his  shrunken  chest. 

Still  must  you  remember  that  this  old  man  was  once  a  renowned  lord  ; 
that  he  forsook  all  that  the  world  holds  dear,  buried  himself  for  seventeen 
years  in  the  wilds  of  this  forest,  his  days  and  nights  spent  amid  the  dark 
pages  of  the  Revelations  of  Saint  John. 

Up  and  down  the  oaken  floor,  now  by  the  altar,  where  the  light  shone 
over  his  brow,  now  in  the  darkness,  where  the  writhings  of  his  counte- 
nance were  lost  in  shadows,  the  old  man  hurried  along,  his  eye  blazing 
with  a  wilder  light,  his  withered  cheek  with  a  warmer  glow. 

Meanwhile  the  son  remained  kneeling  in  prayer.  The  lights  burned 
dimly — the  room  was  covered  with  a  twilight  gloom.  Still  the  Iron  Cross 
was  seen — the  white  altar  still  broke  through  the  darkness,  with  its  silver 
Flagon  and  Laurel  Crown. 

Hark  !  That  sound — the  clock  is  on  the  hour  of  three  !  The  old  man 
starts,  quivers,  listens  ! 

One  !  rings  through  the  desolate  mansion. 

"I  hear  no  sound!"  mutters  the  enthusiast.  But  the  words  had  not 
passed  on  his  lips,  when  Two — swells  on  the  air. 

"He  comes  not!"  cries  Paul,  darting  to  his  feet,  his  features  quivering 
with  suspense.  They  clasp  their  hands  together— they  listen  with  fren- 
zied intensity. 

"Still  no  footstep  !    Not  a  sound!"  gasped  Paul. 

"But  he  will  come!"  and  the  old  man,  sublime  in  the  energy  of  fanati- 
cism, towered  erect,  one  hand  to  his  heart,  while  the  other  quivered  in 
the  air. 

Three!  Trfe  last  stroke  of  the  bell  swelled — echoed — and  died 
away. 

"He  comes  not!"  gasped  the  son,  in  agony — "But  yes!  Is  there  not 
a  footstep  on  the  frozen  snow  ?  Hark!  Father,  father!  do  you  hear  that 
footstep?    It  is  on  the  threshold  now — it  advances — " 

11 


162 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"He  comes!"  whispered  the  old  man,  while  the  sweat  stood  out  in 
beads  from  his  withered  brow. 

— "It  advances,  father!  Yes,  along  the  hall — hark!  There  is  a  hand 
on  the  door — hah!  All  is  silent  again?  It  is  but  a  delusion — no!  He  is 
come  at  last !" 

"At  last  he  is  come!"  gasped  the  old  man,  and  with  one  impulse  they 
sank  on  their  knees.  Hark!  You  hear  the  old  door  creak  on  its  hinges, 
as  it  swings  slowly  open — a  strange  voice  breaks  the  silence. 

"Friends,  I  have  lost  my  way  in  the  forest,"  said  the  voice,  speaking 
in  a  calm,  manly  tone.    "Can  you  direct  me  to  the  right  way?" 

The  old  man  looked  up;  a  cry  of  wonder  trembled  from  his  lips.  As 
for  the  son,  he  gazed  in  silence  on  the  Stranger,  while  his  features  were 
stamped  with  inexpressible  surprise. 

The  Stranger  stood  on  the  threshold,  his  face  to  the  light,  his  form 
thrown  boldly  forward,  by  the  darkness  at  his  back. 

He  stood  there,  not  as  a  Conqueror  on  the  battle  field,  with  the  spoils  . 
of  many  nations  trampled  under  his  feet. 

Towering  above  the  stature  of  common  men,  his  form  was  clad  in  the 
dress  of  a  plain  gentleman  of  that  time,  fashioned  of  black  velvet,  with 
ruffles  on  the  bosom  and  around  the  wrist,  diamond  buckles  gleaming 
from  his  shoes. 

Broad  in  the  shoulders,  beautiful  in  the  sinewy  proportions  of  each 
limb,  he  stood  there,  extending  his  hat  in  one  hand,  while  the  other 
gathered  his  heavy  cloak  around  the  arm. 

His  white  forehead  overarched  large  eyes,  which  gleamed  even  through 
the  darkness  of  the  room  with  a  calm,  clear  light ;  his  lips  were  firm ;  his 
chin  round  and  full ;  the  general  contour  of  his  face  stamped  with  the  set- 
tled beauty  of  mature  manhood,  mingled  with  the  fire  of  chivalry. 

In  one  word,  he  was  a  man  whom  you  would  single  out  among  a  crowd 
of  ten  thousand,  for  his  grandeur  of  bearing,  his  calm,  collected  dignity 
of  expression  and  manner. 

"Friends,"  he  again  began,  as  he  started  back,  surprised  at  the  sight 
of  the  kneeling  enthusiasts,  "I  have  lost  my  way — " 

"Thou  hast  not  lost  thy  way,"  spoke  the  voice  of  the  old  man,  as  he 
arose  and  confronted  the  stranger ;  "  thou  hast  found  thy  way  to  useful- 
ness and  immortal  renown!" 

The  Stranger  advanced  a  footstep,  while  a  warm  glow  overspread  his 
commanding  face.  Paul  stood  as  if  spell-bound  by  the  calm  gaze  of  his 
clear,  deep  eyes. 

"Nay — do  not  start,  nor  gaze  upon  me  in  such  wond*!  I  tell  thee  the 
voice  that  speaks  from  my  lips,  is  the  voice  of  Revelation.  Thou  art  called 
to  a  great  work;  kneel  before  the  altar  and  receive  thy  mission!" 

Nearer  to  the  altar  drew  the  Stranger. 

"This  is  but  folly — you  mean  to  mock  me!"  he  began;  but  the  wild 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


163 


gaze  of  the  old  man  thrilled  his  heart,  as  with  magnetic  fire.  He  paused, 
and  stood  silent  and  wondering1. 

"Nay,  doubt  me  not!  To-night,  filled  with  strange  thoughts  in  regard 
to  your  country's  Future,  you  laid  yourself  down  to  sleep  within  your 
Habitation  in  yonder  city.  But  sleep  fled  from  your  eyes  —  a  feeling  of 
restlessness  drove  you  forth  into  the  cold  air  of  night — " 

"This  is  trueJ."  muttered  the  Stranger  in  a  musing  tone,  while  his  face 
expressed  surprise. 

"As  you  dashed  along,  mounted  on  the  steed  which  soon  will  bear 
your  form  in  the  ranks  of  battle,  the  cold  air  of  night  fanned  your  hot 
brow,  but  could  not  drive  from  your  soul  the  Thought  of  your  Country!" 

"How  know  you  this?"  and  the  Stranger  started  forward,  grasping  the 
old  man  suddenly  by  the  wrist. 

Deeper  and  bolder  thrilled  the  tones  of  the  old  Enthusiast. 

"The  rein  fell  loosely  on  your  horse's  neck — you  let  him  wander,  you 
.cared  not  whither!  Still  the  thought  that  oppressed  your  soul  was  the 
future  of  your  country.  Still  great  hopes — dim  visions  of  ivhat  is  to  come 
—  floating  panoramas  of  battle  and  armed  legions — darted  one  by  one  over 
your  soul.  Even  as  you  stood  on  the  threshold  of  yonder  door,  asking, 
in  calm  tones,  the  way  through  the  forest,  another  and  a  deeper  question 
rose  to  your  lips — — " 

"I  confess  it!"  said  the  Stranger,  his  tone  catching  the  deep  emotion 
of  the  old  man's  voice.  "As  I  stood  upon  the  threshold,  the  question  that 
rose  to  my  lips  was — " 

"Is  it  lawful  for  a  subject  to  draw  sivord  against  his  King?" 

"Man!  You  read  the  heart!"  and  this  strange  man,  of  commanding 
form  and  thoughtful  brow,  gazed  fixedly  in  the  eyes  of  the  Enthusiast, 
while  his  face  expressed  every  conflicting  emotion  of  doubt,  suspicion, 
surprise,  and  awe. 

"Nay,  do  not  gaze  upon  me  in  such  wonder?  1  tell  thee  a  great  work 
has  been  allotted  unto  thee,  by  the  Father  of  all  souls !  Kneel  by  this 
altar — and  here,  in  the  silence  of  night,  amid  the  depths  of  these  wild 
woods  —  will  I  anoint  thee  Deliverer  of  this  great  land,  even  as  the  men 
of  Judah,  in  the  far-gone  time,  anointed  the  brows  of  the  chosen  David!" 

It  may  have  been  a  sudden  impulse,  or,  perchance,  some  conviction  of 
the  future  flashed  over  the  Stranger's  soul,  but,  as  the  gloom  of  that 
chamber  gathered  round  him,  as  the  voice  of  the  old  man  thrilled  in  his 
ear,  he  felt  those  knees,  which  never  yielded  to  man,  sink  .beneath  him; 
he  bowed  before  the  altar,  his  brow  bared,  and  his  hands  laid  upon  the 
Book  of  God. 

The  light  flashed  over  his  bold  features,  glowing  with  the  beauty  of 
manhood  in  its  prime,  over  his  proud  form,  dilating  with  a  feeling  of  in- 
expressible agitation. 

On  one  side  of  the  altar  stood  the  old  man— the  Priest  of  the  Wissa- 


164 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


hikon — his  silver  hair  waving  aside  from  his  flushed  brow — on  the  other, 
his  son,  bronzed  in  face,  but  thoughtful  in  the  steady  gaze  of  his  large 
full  eyes. 

Around  this  strange  group  all  was  gloom:  the  cold  wintry  air  poured 
through  the  open  door,  but  they  heeded  it  not.  % 

"  Thou  art  called  to  the  great  work  of  a  Champion  and  Deliverer ! 
Soon  thou  wilt  ride  to  battle  at  the  head  of  legions — soon  thou  wilt  lead  a 
people  on  to  freedom — soon  thy  sword  will  gleam  like  a  meteor  over  the 
ranks  of  war!" 

As  the  voice  of  the  old  man  in  the  dark  robe,  with  the  silver  cross  flash- 
ing on  his  heart,  thrills  through  the  chamber — as  the  Stranger  bows  his 
head,  as  if  in  reverence,  while  the  dark-browed  son  looks  silently  on — 
look  yonder,  in  the  dark  shadows  of  the  doorway ! 

A  young  form,  with  a  dark  mantle  floating  round  her  white  robes,  stands 
trembling  there.  As  you  look,  her  blue  eye  dilates  with  fear,  her  hair 
streams  in  a  golden  shower,  down  to  the  uncovered  shoulders.  Her  finger 
is  pressed  against  her  lip ;  she  stands  doubting,  fearing,  trembling  on  the 
threshold. 

■Unseen  by  all,  she  fears  that  her  father  may  work  harm  to  the  kneeling 
Stranger.  What  knows  she  of  his  wild  dreams  of  enthusiasm  ?  The 
picture  which  she  beholds  terrifies  her.  This  small  and  gloomy  chamber, 
lighted  by  the  white  candles — the  altar  rising  in  the  gloom — the  Iron  Cross 
confronting  the  kneeling  man,  like  a  thing  of  evil  omen — her  brother,  mute 
and  wondering — her  father,  with  white  hairs  floating  aside  from  his 
flushed  forehead.  The  picture  was  singular  and  impressive :  the  winter 
wind,  moaning  sullenly  without,  imparted  a  sad  and  organ-like  music  to 
the  scene. 

"Dost  thou  promise,  that  when  the  appointed  time  arrives,  thou  wilt  be 
found  ready,  sword  in  hand,  to  fight  for  thy  country  and  thy  God  ?" 

It  was  in  tones  broken  by  emotion,  that  the  Stranger  simply  answered— 
"I  do!" 

"Dost  thou  promise,  in  the  hour  of  thy  glory — when  a  nation  shall 
bow  before  thee — as  in  the  fierce  moment  of  adversity,— when  thou  shalt 
oehold  thy  soldiers  starving  for  want  of  bread — to  remember  the  great 
truth,  written  in  these  words — 1 1  am  but  the  Minister  of  God  in  the  great 
work  of  a  nation? s  freedom  V  " 

"  Then,  in  His  name,  who  gave  the  New  World  to  the  millions  of  the 
human  race,  as  the  last  altar  of  their  rights,  I  do  consecrate  thee  its — 
Deliverer!" 

With  the  finger  of  his  extended  hand,  touched  with  the  anointing  oil, 
he  described  the  figure  of  a  Cross  on  the  white  forehead  of  the  Stranger, 
who  raised  his  eyes,  while  his  lips  murmured  as  if  in  prayer. 

Never  was  nobler  King  anointed  beneath  the  shadow  of  Cathedral  arch 
— never  did  holier  Priest  administer  the  solemn  vow !  A  poor  Cathedral, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


165 


this  rude  Block-house  of  the  Wissahikon — a  plainly  clad  gentleman,  this 
kneeling  Stranger — a  wild  Enthusiast,  the  old  man !  I  grant  it  all.  And 
yet,  had  you  seen  the  Enthusiasm  of  the  white-haired  Minister,  reflected 
in  the  Stranger's  brow,  and  cheek,  and  eyes ;  had  you  marked  the  con- 
trast between  the  shrunken  form  of  the  44  Priest,"  and  the  proud  figure  of 
the  Anointed, — both  quivering  with  the  same  agitation, — you  would  con- 
fess with  me,  that  this  Consecration  was  full  as  holy,  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven,  as  that  of  44  Good  King  George." 

And  all  the  while  that  young  man  stood  gazing  on  the  stranger  in 
silent  awe,  while  a  warm  glow  lightens  up  the  face  of  the  girl  trembling 
on  the  threshold,  as  she  beholds  the  scene. 

44  When  the  time  comes,  go  forth  to  victory  !  On  thy  brow,  no  con- 
queror's blood-red  wreath,  but  this  crown  of  fadeless  laurel !" 

He  extends  his  hand,  as  if  to  wreathe  the  Stranger's  brow  with  the 
leafy  crown — yet  look  !  A  young  form  steals  up  to  his  side,  seizes  the 
crown  from  his  hand,  and,  ere  you  can  look  again,  it  falls  upon  the  bared 
brow  of  the  kneeling  man. 

He  looks  up  and  beholds  that  young  girl,  with  the  dark  mantle  gathered 
over  her  white  robes,  stand  blushing  and  trembling  before  the  altar,  as 
though  frightened  at  the  boldness  of  the  deed. 

44  It  is  well !"  said  the  aged  man,  regarding  his  daughter  with  a  kindly 
smile.  44  From  whom  should  the  Deliverer  of  a  Nation  receive  his  crown 
of  laurel,  but  from  the  hands  of  a  stainless  woman  !" 

44  Rise  !  The  Champion  and  Leader  of  a  People  !"  spoke  the  deep 
voice  of  the  son,  as  he  stood  before  the  altar,  surveying,  with  one  glance, 
the  face  of  his  father,  the  countenance  of  the  blushing  girl,  and  the  bowed 
head  of  the  Stranger.  44  Rise,  sir,  and  take  this  hand,  which  was  never 
yet  given  to  man!  I  know  not  thy  name,  yet,  on  this  Book,  I  swear  to 
be  faithful  to  thee,  even  to  the  death !" 

The  Stranger  rose  ;  proudly  he  stood  there,  as  with  the  consciousness 
of  his  commanding  look  and  form.  The  laurel-wreath  encircled  his  white 
forehead ;  the  cross,  formed  by  the  anointing  oil,  glistened  in  the  light. 

Paul,  the  son,  buckled  a  sword  to  his  side ;  the  old  man  extended  his 
hands  as  if  in  blessing,  while  the  young  girl  looked  up  silently  into  his  face. 

They  all  beheld  the  form  of  this  strange  man  shake  with  emotion ; 
while  that  face,  whose  calm  beauty  had  won  their  hearts,  now  quivered 
in  every  fibre. 

The  wind  moaned  sadly  over  the  frozen  snow,  yet  these  words, 
uttered  by  the  stranger,  were  heard  distinctly  by  all — 

44  From  you,  old  man,  I  take  the  vow  !  From  you,  fair  girl,  the  laurel  ! 
From  you,  brave  friend,  the  sword  !  On  this  Book  I  swear  to  be  faithful 
unto  all !" 

And  as  the  light  flashed  over  his  quivering  features,  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  Book  and  kissed  the  hilt  of  the  sword. 


166  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


CHAPTER  SIXTEENTH. 

THE  OLD  LONDON  COFFEE  HOUSE. 

"  Solemnly,  gentlemen,  and  truly,  I  must.  There's  daybreak  in  the 
chinks  of  the  door,  and  you  can  hear  the  kuckerekoos  all  over  the  town. 
I  must  indeed—" 

The  little  man  smoothed  his  white  apron,  with  his  big  hands  arranged 
his  wig,  which,  sooth  to  say,  inclined  too  much  to  the  left  side  of  his 
narrow  forehead,  and  arranged  his  hose,  which  hung  somewhat  loosely 
about  his  knees.  In  one'  hand  he  held  a  burnished  candlestick,  containing 
the  last  remains  of  a  flickering  light,  and  as  he  spoke,  in  tones  at  once 
bland  and  deprecating,  he  accompanied  every  other  word  with  a  gro- 
tesque genuflection,  intended  for  a  bow. 

Around  the  table  which  stood  near  the  broad  fire-place — a  circular 
table,  strewn  with  pewter  mugs,  long-necked  bottles  and  broken  pipes — 
three  persons  were  seated  in  capacious  oaken  chairs.  Their  faces 
bloomed  with  the  freshness  of  Madeira,  or,  to  speak  perchance  more  cor- 
rectly, leadened  with  t$ie  stupor  of  malt  and  tobacco.  For  every  hand 
grasped  a  mug  of  shining  pewter,  and  a  pipe  of  plain  clay  was  inserted  in 
every  mouth. 

It  was  a  large  room,  with  white-washed  walls  and  a  neatly  sanded 
floor.  In  one  corner,  certain  vessels  glittering  on  a  range  of  shelves,  gave 
some  indications  of  the  character  of  the  place.  The  doors  and  windows 
were  carefully  closed,  as  if  to  seclude  the  belated  revellers  from  the  light 
of  daybreak,  and  the  remains  of  a  glorious  wood-fire  smoked  and  smoul- 
dered among  the  ashes  of  the  hearth. 

In  a  word,  this  room,  into  which  we  have  so  unceremoniously  entered, 
was  nothing  less  than  the  famed  public  hall  or  bar-room  of  the  "  London 
Coffee  House,"  a  quaint  fabric,  with  deep  gabled  roof,  which  stood  at  the 
corner  of  Market  and  Front  streets,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  town-gos- 
sips and  coffee-drinkers  of  old  Philadelphia. 

Here  the  good  people  thronged  to  sip  their  coffee,  tipple  their  Jamaica 
rum,  discuss  the  politics  of  the  day,  and  decide  upon  the  merits  of  King 
George,  and  the  Continental  Congress. 

The  persons  who  occupied  the  oak  chairs  may  attract  our  attention,  as 
appropriate  types  of  certain  classes  of  society  in  the  year  1774. 

One  was  a  burly  fellow,  whose  round  cheeks  vividly  brought  to  mind 
a  lively  image  of  the  full  moon  on  a  Dutch  clock,  while  his  scarlet  uni- 
form might  have  scared  whole  legions  of  male  turkeys,  and  frightened  a 
herd  of  bulls  into  hysterics.    With  one  leg — encased  in  a  huge  boot  of 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


167 


black  leather,  Dplished  to  a  charm — laid  upon  the  table,  this  gentleman 
regaled  himself  with  alternate  whiffs  of  his  pipe  and  draughts  of  beer. 
Near  him,  with  a  very  long  nose,  and  lips  of  no  character  at  all,  was  a 
goodly  citizen,  whose  dark  attire,  soiled  by  tobacco  ashes  and  beer  drip- 
pings, gave  evidence  of  the  night-long  revel.  And  beside  the  citizen, 
whose  steel  buttons  and  steel  knee-buckles  spoke  of  the  economical 
habits  of  a  careful  son  of  traffic,  was  a  slender  youth,  dressed  daintily  in  a 
wide-skirted  coat  of  brownish  velvet,  with  a  buff  waistcoat  and  satin 
breeches.  His  face,  rather  insipid  in  its  character,  was  very  pale ;  his 
large  blue  eyes — looking  like  the  eyes  of  a  Chinese  mandarin  on  a  porce- 
lain pitcher — were  altogether  leaden.  As  he  smoked  away,  sucking  at 
the  stem  of  his  pipe  with  an  energy  that  hollowed  his  haggard  cheeks 
into  caverns,  and  started  his  leaden  eyes  from  their  sockets,  he  swayed  to 
and  fro  in  the  capacious  arm-chair,  with  a  motion  that  reminded  you  of 
a  crab-apple  tossing  about  in  a  bowl  of  hot  liquor. 

"  Must — eh  ?"  said  the  scarlet  gentleman,  with  a  hiccup — "  What  must 
you  do,  Tadkins  ?" 

"  The  landlord,  as  you  know,  is  gone  to  bed  these  three  hours,  and  is 
sleepin'  away  now  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  with  two  night-caps  on  his 
bald  head,  an'  I  must — indeed  I  must — " 

Here  Tadkins,  the  imposing  representative — in  the  absence  of  the  Land- 
lord— of  the  dignity  and  beer  of  the  far-famed  "  London  Coffee  House," 
elaborated  a  strange  performance  in  gymnastics,  by  suddenly  dropping  his 
head,  stretching  forth  his  arms,  and  scraping  his  right  foot  over  the 
sanded  floor.  This,  translated  into  English,  was  intended  to  say,  "I, 
Christopher  Tadkins,  tapster  of  the  Old  London  Coffee  House,  leave  the 
drift  of  my  remarks  to  your  good  sense,  gentlemen  !" 

"  What  does  he  mean  ?"  cried  the  gayly  attired  youth,  from  a  corner  of 
his  spacious  mouth,  very  remote  from  the  centre — "  Tad,  it's  rather  odd,  I 
vow,  'fore  George — "  his  favorite  way  of  getting  up  a  little  genteel  pro- 
fanity— "  Speak  out,  man,  and  don't  stand  there  bobbing  your  head  until 
your  wig  flies  off — 

"  Yes — "  remarked  the  elderly  citizen — *t  enlighten  us.  Be  lucid. 
Translate  yourself  from  dumb  motion  into  English.  Or,  if  you're  drunk, 
say  so.  We're  not  severe  to-night.  It's  New  Year's  morning,  you 
know  " 

The  elderly  gentleman  buried  the  tip  of  his  nose  in  the  recesses  of  his 
pewter  mug. 

"  Why,  gentlemen,  you  must  see  that's  its  reether  late — "  Tadkins 
placed  his  right  hand  in  the  centre  of  his  apron, — "I  ax  you  to  reflec' 
— you,  Antony  Hopkins,  Marchant — "  he  bowed  to  the  elderly  citizen — 
"  You,  Octavius  Germin,  Esquire — "  a  bow  to  the  pale-faced  youth — 
"an'  you,  Cap'in  Grosby,  of  his  Majesty's  hundred  and  twelfth  regi- 
ment—" 


168 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


Poor  Tadkins  came  to  a  sudden  pause.  In  the  fervo^  of  his  speech, 
he  had  suddenly  lost  the  idea,  on  the  strength  of  which  he  commenced 
his  profound  appeal. 

"  Well  ?"  grunted  the  bluff  Captain  Grosby— "  Well  ?" 

M  There's  no  denyin'  it,  gentlemen,  it's  as  late  as  daybreak,  and  you 
must  g-wf"  shrieked  Tadkins  in  utter  despair.    "If  I  let  you  stay  any 
longer,  the  Landlord  will  give  me  such  a  latherin'  to-morrow — that  is,  to- 
day— as — " 
.  Again  Tadkins  came  to  a  sudden  halt. 

"  Germin — "  the  Captain  waved  his  red  hand,  encircled  by  white 
ruffles,  toward  the  pale-faced  youth — "  Just  oblige  me  by  heating  that 
poker,  and  while  it  is  doing,  hand  me  an  empty  mug." 

There  was  a  vast  deal  of  significance  in  his  bland  whisper.  Tadkins 
retreated  a  step  in  evident  alarm,  while  Germin  handed  the  pewter  mug, 
with  the  remark — 

"  That's  easier  to  manage  than  a  hot  poker.  Shy  it  at  his  wig,  but 
don't  hurt  his  head." 

Tadkins  retreated  another  step — "  Gentle-men  !"  he  gasped. 

"  Now,  Sirrah,  do  you  see  me  ?  If  you  don't  put  a  cork  into  that  hole 
in  your  face,  and  stop  off  your  jabber,  I'll  just  take  the  nicest  piece  of 
rlesh  off  the  right  corner  of  your  cocoanut,  that  ever  you  did  see.    I  will, 

by    !" 

We  cannot  decipher  the  oath,  from  the  MSS.  which  relates  this  striking 
threat,  but  have  no  hesitation  in  giving  the  assurance,  that  said  oath  was 
tierce,  bloody,  royal — altogether  worthy  of  a  British  Captain,  inspired  by 
a  sense  of  his  dignity,  and  a  dozen  mugs  of  beer. 

Tadkins,  without  a  word,  retreated  toward  the  shelves,  where  his  can- 
dle shone  over  the  array  of  burnished  pewter.  Yet,  even  as  he  shambled 
along,  he  muttered  an  inaudible  rejoinder,  and  grew  very  bitter  on  the 
corpulent  Briton,  wishing  among  other  things  that  his  nose  would  set  fire 
to  his  face,  and  straightway  reduce  him  to  a  cinder,  as  a  warning  to  all 
future  ages.  From  the  secure  retreat  near  the  furnished  shelves,  he 
watched  the  drinking-party,  with  an  earnestness  that  lasted  only  for  an 
instant.  No  sooner  had  Tadkins  placed  the  candle  on  a,  shelf,  and 
straightened  his  wig — blacking  one  eye  with  the  candle-snuff,  which  ad- 
hered to  his  fingers,  then  he  fell  fast  asleep,  and  snored  like  a  north-wind 
whistling  through  a  key-hole. 

"To  resume — where  did  I  leave  off?  Now  that  we're  free  from  the 
impertinent  interruptions  of  this  fellow — "  Grosby  looked  with  a  sleepy 
stare  into  the  faces  of  his  companions. 

"At  the  stake  in  the  middle  of  a  dark  woods  with  fire  at  your  feet 
and  a  troop  of  Indian  devils  dancing  round  you — "  suggested  the  young 
gentleman,  speaking  the  sentence  in  one  short  breath. 

"One  in  particular  was  touchin'  you  up  with  a  pine  torch  under  your 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


169 


nose — "  remarked  the  plain  citizen,  again  secluding  his  nose  from 
the  light. 

"  Yes,  sirs  !"  The  obese  Captain  panted  for  breath,  as  he  forced  the 
smoke  of  his  pipe  through  his  large  nostrils — "  There  I  was.  Tied  to  the 
stake.  Injins  all  around.  Tomahawks — pine  torches— ugly  old  women, 
screaming  like  so  many  walking  Bedlams.  I  teas  there,  sirs.  A  toma- 
hawk was  brandished  over  my  head,  but  1  looked  the  red  scoundrel  in  the 
eye — in  the  eye,  sirs — in  the  eye — " 

The  Captain  lifted  his  mug  to  his  mouth,  and,  with  the  beer  froth 
clinging  to  his  large  lips,  quietly  remarked — 

"  I  wonder  why  he  does  stay  ?" 

It  does  not  appear  that  this  abrupt  remark  was  connected,  in  the  most 
remote  degree,  with  the  narrative  which  the  worthy  Captain  had  been  so 
impressively  telling.  His  companions  were  too  far  gone  in  the  abstruse 
meditations  engendered  by  the  beer  mug,  to  notice  this  sudden  diversion 
of  the  Captain's  train  of  thought.  Indeed,  Octavius  was  engaged  in  the 
hopeless  attempt  to  entrap  an  imaginary  black  beetle,  which  flitted  be- 
tween his  eyes  and  the  unsnufTed  candle,  while  friend  Anthony  muttered 
to  himself  the  mysterious  words — "  Only  ten  o'clock,  my  love — not  so 
late  as  you  think— New  Year's  Eve,  you  know—" 

He  evidently  imagined  himself  in  the  presence  of  his  indignant  spouse. 

"Why  does  he  stay?"  repeated  the  Captain. 

"Eh?  I  vow  I  don't  know  — "  cried  Octavius,  suddenly  brightening 
'up  ; — "  He  said  that  he  would  join  us  at  three  o'clock,  and  now  it's  day- 
break. Were  there  ever  such  lively  roosters  in  your  part  of  the  world  ?" 
he  added,  as  the  trumpet  peal  of  an  early  chicken-cock  echoed  through 
the  silence  of  the  town. 

"  A  lord — a  lord — "  muttered  Anthony,  with  an  absent  eye,  and  finger 
slowly  undulating  between  his  nose  and  his  pewter  mug — "  A  live  Lord 
in  Philadelphia,  consigned  by  his  father  to  my  care,  and  nobody  knows 
it.    Nobody — except  you — and  you — and — he,  he — and  me." 

It  was  no  doubt  an  excellent  joke,  for  friend  Anthony  chuckled  over  it, 
until  his  nose  resembled  a  premium  pear,  at  some  horticultural  exhibition. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  cried  the  Captain,  with  his  sleepy  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  pale  youth — "In  the  name  of  his  Blessed  Majesty  !  Octavius, 
my  dear — " 

"  Eight— nine — ten — "  muttered  Octavius,  surveying  a  little  pile  of  gold 
coin,  which  he  had  placed  upon  the  table.  "  If  he  succeeds,  I  lose.  If 
he  don't,  I  win.    How  do  you  think  it  will  turn  out,  Captain  ?" 

The  individual  addressed  seemed  to  be  wrapt  in  deep  cogitations  for  a 
moment,  and  then  answered  gravely — 

"  If  she  was  a  lady  of  quality,  I  could  tell  you  in  a  minute.  In  that 
case  you  would  lose.    Distinct-l-y,  sir  !    But,  as  she  is  a  peasant  girl,  I 


170  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

am  induced  to  think  that  our  friend — that  is,  John — eh?  John!  Capital 
joke,  to  call  himself  John,  plain  John, — eh  ?" 

"  R-e-g,  Reg"  muttered  the  decorous  citizen,  writing  with  the  end  of 
his  finger,  moistened  with  beer,  upon  the  white  table, — "  i, — Regi, — 
n-a-l-d, — nald, — Reginald  /" 

As  though  he  had  accomplished  some  problem  of  incalculable  intricacy, 
the  good  citizen  looked  around  with  a  glance  of  triumph,  and  pointed  to 
the  name,  inscribed  upon  the  smooth  board  in  characters — not  of  light — 
but  of  beer. 

"  When1  did  you  get  a  letter  from  the  old  boy?"  observed  Captain 
Grosby. 

"Yesterday.  Mysterious — ugh!  very  mysterious — "  responded  An- 
thony. Diving  his  hand  into  a  side-pocket,  he  drew  forth  a  letter  cum- 
bered by  a  large  seal,  and  holding  it  near  the  light,  read  from  its  pages  in 
an  under-tone — " 4 1  charge  you,  have  a  care  over  my — my  son — and  let  no 
effort  be  spared  to  further  the  great  object  of  his  journey  to  Phil — Phila- 
del — '  very  mysterious!" 

"And  if  he  succeeds,  I  win  the  guineas,"  said  Mr.  Octavius,  making  an 
earnest  effort  to  draw  a  cloud  of  smoke  from  a  cold  pipe. — "  Why  does 
he  stay?  Ha.  ha — it  must  be  a  delicious  interview.  The  dear  little  girl 
listens  to  the  insinuating  stranger,  and — " 

"  Speakin'  o'  girls  reminds  me  of  politics,"  remarked  the  Merchant, 
arranging  himself  in  a  position  of  commanding  gravity,  with  one  limb 
crossed  over  the  other,  and  his  chin  very  near  his  knee,  while  his  thumbs 
and  the  ends  of  his  fingers  were  placed  together,  with  due  solemnity — 
"Do  you  think,  Captain,  that  this  Continental  Congress  will  ever  come  to 
much?  Great  talk  in  the  State-house  yard,  in  these  days,  about  the  rights 

of  the  Colonies,  and  snuff  the  candle,  if  I  may  trouble  you,  Octavius — 

ministerial  oppression.  Many  words,  a  great  many  words;  and,  if  I  may 
use  so  bold  a  phrase,  an  unlimited  Ocean  of — of — small-talk." 

"Sir.    Si-r-r!    The  name  of  his  blessed  Majesty  King  George  is — " 

The  Captain  inhaled  an  immense  volume  of  smoke,  and  paid  his  devo- 
tions to  the  beer  mug.  It  was  quite  a  pleasure  to  hear  him  conclude  his 
remarkable  sentiment : 

"  That  is  my  opinion,  Sir.    It  is." 

"  Exactly  my  own  way  of  thinking,"  said  Anthony.  "  I  have  always 
held  those  opinions." 

Octavius  said  nothing,  but  continued  to  count  his  guineas. 

"  Eh — bye  the  bye,  when  do  you  expect  John  to  leave  the  city?" — the 
Captain  turned  his  leaden  eyes  toward  the  citizen. 

"Some  months  will  elapse — "  began  the  Merchant,  performing  a 
solemn  pantomime  with  his  thumb  and  fingers,  when  his  words  were  sud- 
denly interrupted  by  an  alarming  clamor  at  the  tavern  door. 

"Do   you   hear,  Tadkins?     Hello — the   fellow's    asleep— suppose 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


171 


you  let  him  in,  Octavy,  my  dear,"  said  the  Captain,  in  a  mild,  loving 
way. 

"It's  very  easy  to  say,  Let  him  in;  but  when  a  man  has  deposited  some 
two  or  three  bottles  of  wine  within  his  waistcoat,  with  a  superstructure 
of  beer  and  tobacco  smoke,  it  becomes  a  question  how — a  man — can 
walk-" 

Octavius  rose  to  his  feet,  however,  and  reached  the  door,  after  several 
erratic  movements  to  the  right  and  left.  No  sooner  had  he  removed  the 
wooden  bar,  than  the  latch  was  lifted,  and  a  figure  rushed  over  the  thresh- 
old and  moved  with  hasty  strides  toward  the  table. 

"Hello!  Why,  you're  white  as  a  sheet!  Rather  an  unpleasant  object!" 
cried  the  Captain,  starting  in  his  chair.  "  You  don't  call  it  a  decent  thing, 
to  plunge  in  upon  us,  looking  like  a  corpse,  do  you?" 

"What's  the  matter?"  drawled  Anthony,  gazing  vacantly  into  the  face 
of  the  intruder. 

It  was  Jacopo,  no  longer  red  and  blooming  in  the  cheeks,  but  pale  as  a 
dead  man.  His  slender  limbs  trembled  under  the  weight  of  his  rotund 
paunch,  as  he  stood  by  the  table,  his  small  black  eyes  peering  steadily 
into  the  lean  visage  of  the  merchant.  Even  his  nose,  which  we  have 
seen  blooming  and  blushing  like  a  fire  coal  about  to  kindle  into  a  blaze, 
was  colorless  now. 

"Jacopo!  How  goes  it,  man?"  Octavius  staggered  to  his  side — 
"Where's  John? — I'm  ready — "  he  leaned  for  support  upon  the  table, 
while  his  face  was  invested  with  the  apathy  of  the  last  degree  of  drunken- 
ness— "How's  your  health,  my  boy  ?  Favor  this  company  with  a  song." 

And  then  the  bewildered  Octavius  favored  the  company  with  a  touching 
couplet  from  a  pathetic  ballad  of  the  olden  time : 

"  My  name  is  Robert  Kidd, 
K  And  so  wickedly  I  did — 

As  I  sail-e-d,  as  I  sa-i-l-ed." 

"  Octavy,  my  love,"  politely  interfered  Captain  Grosby — "  Hold  your 
jaw." 

Jacopo  did  not  speak  a  word  in  answer.  Panting  for  breath,  he  looked 
silently  into  the  faces  of  the  boon  companions,  while  his  features  were 
pallid  with  a  blank  terror. 

Anthony  dashed  his  mug  upon  the  table,  and  staggered  to  his  feet. 
"Where's  your  master?"  he  cried,  as  he  beheld  the  terror-stricken  face 
of  Jacopo. 

"  The  fact  is,  my  friends,  I'm  a  little  out  o'  breath — "  Jacopo  spoke 
very  slowly,  looking  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  door,  with  the  glance 
of  a  nervous  man,  who  fancies  that  he  is  pursued  by  an  Apparition.  "  But 
you  surely  are  jesting — you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  my  Lor — (that  is, 
John) — is  not  here?" 


172 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


A  dead  silence  ensued.    The  terror  imprinted  on  the  face  of  Jacopo 
impressed  the  boon  companions  with  an  involuntary  awe.    The  Captain 
rose,   and   the    three   gathered   around   the   companion  of  Reginald 
Lyndulfe. 

M  What's  this !  Where  is  he  ?  YQur  face  would  frighten  the  devil  him- 
self. Out  with  it  at  once — "  and  the  burly  officer  shook  Jacopo  roughly 
by  the  shoulder. 

"  Out  with  it,  or  I  won't  answer  for  your  health,  by  !" 

"  Has  he  come  yet?"  faltered  Jacopo,  sinking  into  a  chair  with  a  gro- 
tesque sigh,  which  resembled  a  snore.  "  Corpi  di  bacco  !  This  is  very 
singular — "  he  grasped  a  wine-bottle,  and  inserted  the  neck  in  his  capa- 
cious mouth.  "A-a-h!  I  am  very  chilly.  They  produce  such  cold 
weather  in  this  new  country — " 

"  Would  you  be  so  good  as  to  speak  ?"  thundered  the  Captain, — when 
suddenly  a  footstep  was  heard,  and  a  form,  crossing  the  threshold,  came 
rapidly  through  the  shadows  toward  the  table. 

Every  eye  was  turned  with  the  same  movement  toward  the  face  of  the 
new-comer.  Not  a  word  was  spoken,  and  the  breathless  silence  deepened 
the  feeling  of  terror  which  had  been  communicated  to  the  revellers  by  the 
broken  words  of  Jacopo, 

Reginald  Lyndulfe  stood  disclosed  in  the  light — silent — motionless — 
all  color  banished  from  his  face — his  gray  surtout  thrown  back  on  his 
shoulders,  with  the  gay  apparel  which  it  had  concealed,  covered  with  mud, 
and  torn  in  many  places.  His  entire  appearance  was  wild  and  haggard.  In 
silence  he  surveyed  every  visage,  his  blue  eye  discolored  by  injected  blood, 
while  his  hair  hung  in  damp  flakes  about  his  forehead,  and  his  com- 
pressed lips,  no  longer  red  with  youth  and  passion,  wore  the  color  of 
bluish  clay. 

After  this  silent  gaze,  he  flung  himself  into  a  seat,  or  rather  sank  into 
the  chair,  with  the  manner  of  one  who  has  been  exhausted  by  hours  of 
fatigue  and  suffering.  Still,  no  one  broke  the  silence;  the  boon  compa- 
nions cast  stealthy  glances  into  each  other's  faces,  and  then  as  stealthily 
surveyed  the  faces  of  Jacopo  and  his  master. 

Reginald  dashed  his  cap  upon  the  table,  and  with  his  colorless  hand 
wiped  the  moisture  from  his  forehead. 

"Jacopo — "  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  that  was  scarcely  audible — 
"Have  you  any  brandy?" 

These  words  may  provoke  a  smile,  but  there  was  nothing  like  plea- 
santry upon  the  countenance  of  those  who  surveyed  the  haggard  face  of 
the  young  man.  With  a  hand  that  trembled  visibly,  Jacopo  reached  the 
bottle  which  was  labelled  "Brandy,"  and  placed  a  capacious  glass  goblet 
before  his  master. 

Reginald's  hand  also  trembled  as  he  grasped  the  bottle,  and  held  it  over 
the  goblet  until  it  contained  at  least  one  half  a  pint  of  that  inspiring  poison, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


173 


which  cankers  the  blood  with  its  peculiar  leprosy,  and  degrades  the  man 
into  a  demon. 

He  raised  the  goblet,  and  did  not  set  it  down  until  every  drop  of  the 
burning  liquid  had  passed  his  lips. 

The  surprise,  the  terror  of  the  company  now  manifested  itself  in  words. 

"Zounds!  An  old  trooper  like  me  couldn't  stand  such  a  dose  as  that, 
and  I've  swallowed  the  stuff  these  twenty  years.  You,  my  boy,  you  are 
remarkable  for  your  abstinence.  I  never  saw  you  so  much  as  half-drunk 
or  quarter-drunk,  in  all  the  time  I've  known  you.  Zounds  !  Enough  to 
kill  the  devil!" 

"A  half  a  pint!"  ejaculated  Anthony — "and  without  water!" 

"I  couldn't  drink  it  if  you  were  to  cut  me  up  into  coach-whips!"  was 
the  somewhat  mysterious  remark  of  Octavius. 

Jacopo  gazed  in  silence  into  the  face  of  his  Master.  The  eyes  were 
still  blood-shotten,  the  lips  livid,  the  cheek  colorless.  The  brandy  did 
not  seem  to  have  the  least  effect  upon  him;  at  all  events  its  effects  were 
not  in  the  most  remote  degree  perceptible. 

A  painful  silence  ensued. 

Reginald  held  forth  the  goblet  once  more,  with  an  emphatic  gesture — 
"  More  brandy  !"  he  whispered. 

Jacopo  lifted  the  bottle,  and  paused  when  the  goblet  was  half-filled,  the 
bright  red  liquid  shining  through  the  clear  glass. 

"  Go  on—"  said  his  master,  in  that  almost  inaudible  tone. 

Again  he  raised  the  glass,  and  drained  it  to  the  last  drop. 

The  surprise  and  anxiety  of  the  company  may  be  imagined.  Every 
man  sank  back  in  his  seat,  'and  the  same  ejaculation  quivered  from 
every  lip. 

Yet  still  Reginald  sat  before  them,  his  cadaverous  face,  lighted  by  the 
candle,  as  pale  and  ghastly  as  ever.  His  hands,  which  were  laid  upon 
his  knees,  trembled  as  with  an  ague-chill ;  Avith  blood-shot  eyes,  and 
compressed  lips,  and  pallid  cheeks,  he  gazed  vacantly  into  the  faces  of 
the  spectators. 

"It  is  very  strange — "  he  said,  in  that  hoarse  whisper — "The  brandy 
has  not  the  least  effect  upon  me.  I  believe  that  I  am  about  to  be  taken 
ill  with  some  mortal  disease." 

At  once  the  tongues  of  the  spectators  were  unloosed. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  cried  Anthony. 

"There's  something  dreadful  happened  to  you — "  said  the  Captain. 
"  The  girl—" 

At  that  word,  uttered  by  the  slender  Octavius,  who  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  guineas,  a  shudder  agitated  the  face  of  the  young  man. 

"Pshaw — I  had  quite  forgotten  our  wager.  Have  not  seen  her  to- 
night —  she  did  not  keep  her  appointment.  —  she  —  she  —  ha,  ha  —  has 
jilted  me." 


174  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

With  his  eye  fixed  sternly  upon  the  astonished  face  of  Jacopo,  he 
slowly  uttered  these  words,  with  a  miserable  attempt  to  force  a  smile. 
"  The  guineas  are  yours!" 

"Jacopo,  I  wish  to  say  a  word  to  you,"  whispered  Reginald,  and  he 
led  the  way  toward  the  door,  where  the  light  of  the  breaking  day  fell  upon 
their  haggard  faces. 

"  Go  at  once  to  Mr.  Hopkins's  house, — secure  the  package  on  my  desk 
—  and  saddle  two  of  the  best  horses  in  his  stables.  Then  you  will  cross 
the  river,  and  wait  for  me  in  the  woods  at  Cooper's  Point.  I  will  join 
you  there,  within  a  half-hour." 

"Two  of  the  best  horses  —  how  shall  I  get  them  over  the  river?" — 
there  was  a  ludicrous  astonishment  in  Jacopo's  face. 

*«  There  is  a  ferry  from  the  foot  of  High  street,  or  you  can  get  the  old 
Fisherman  at  Mulberry  street  wharf  to  take  them  over  in  his  flat-boat. 
But  they  must  be  over  the  river  in  a  half  an  hour,  or — " 

His  face  became  suddenly  agitated. 

"Jacopo — "  he  continued,  abruptly  changing  the  subject — "You  left 
the  farm-house  after  I  did.  Was  there  any  thing  like  surprise  at  my  sud- 
den departure  ?" 

Jacopo  answered  in  a  whisper,  hoarse  and  thick  with  emotion — "  I  was 
aroused  from  my  sleep  by  a  loud  outcry.  I  hurried  from  my  room,  and 
found  that  the  noise  proceeded  from  her  chamber — " 

"  Madeline — "  Reginald  shuddered,  as  he  whispered  the  name. 

"  There  was  a  throng  of  neighbors  gathered  there,  and  as  I  crossed  the 
threshold,  I  saw  old  Peter  standing  in  their  midst,  pointing  to  the  floor. 
I  pressed  through  the  crowd,  looking  for  you,  and — " 

"  Go  on — go  on — " 

"  I  did  not  see  your  face,  but  your  name  was  spoken  every  moment,  by 
the  crowd.    And — " 

"  Madeline  ?"  gasped  Reginald,  grasping  his  servant  by  the  wrists. 
"She  was  not  there — " 

Reginald  tottered  backward,  and  would  have  fallen,  had  not  the  arm  of 
Jacopo  held  him  firmly  against  the  posts  of  the  door. 

"  Go  on — "  and  Reginald  cast  a  beseeching  glance  in  the  face  of  Jacopo, 
which  reflected  the  ghastliness  of  his  own  features- — "speak  it  at  once. 
Madeline — was  not—  there— " 

"  She  had  left  the  farm-house,  but  Old  Peter,  who  was  wonderfully  agi- 
tated, pointed  to  the  floor,  and  called  the  attention  of  the  neighbors  to  the 
stain  of  blood,  which  was  visible  at  his  feet.  Nay,  my  Lord,  the  torch- 
light disclosed  not  only  a  stain,  but  a  pool  of  blood — "  Reginald's  fea- 
tures became  blank  with  vague  horror. 

"A  pool  of  blood  *  *  *  and  Madeline  gone — There  has  been  foul  play 
*  *  *  *  but  go  at  once,  Jacopo,  and  obey  my  commands.   Not  a  word — " 

"  But,  my  Lord,  you  are  not  well  —  " 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


175 


"Fool!  Do  you  hesitate?  Let  the  horses  be  ready  in  Cooper's  woods, 
and — "  he  glanced  over  Jacopo's  shoulder,  towards  the  table — "  Hopkins 
will  not  suspect — a  vessel  sails  from  New  York  to-morrow — go,  I  say, 
and  do  not  fail,  for  there  is  more  than  life  at  stake  — " 

He  pushed  Jacopo  through  the  door,  and  hurried  toward  the  table.  The 
faces  of  the  boon  companions  were  turned  toward  his  visage,  as  he  sank 
into  a  seat.  Not  a  word  was  spoken,  but  it  was  evident  that  they  waited 
for  an  explanation  of  all  this  mystery,  from  the  lips  of  Reginald. 

"Hopkins,  I  was  about  to  remark — "  the  Merchant  started  up  in  his 
chair — "  that  is  to  say,  Octavius — "  the  leaden-eyed  reveller  raised  his 
head  from  his  hands — "in  fact,  Captain—" 

Turning  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  boon  companions,  and  exciting 
the  earnest  attention  of  every  one  by  his  address,  Reginald  slowly  con- 
tinued— 

"  Have  you  such  a  thing  as  a  well-flavored  Havanna  cigar  ?"  He  accom- 
panied these  remarkable  words  with  a  hearty  burst  of  laughter. 

There  could  not  have  been  a  more  ludicrous  surprise,  had  he  asked  the 
gallant  Captain  to  pull  a  church  steeple  from  his  pocket,  or  desired  the 
Merchant  to  take  a  merchant  vessel  of  three  hundred  tons  from  the  crown 
of  his  cocked  hat. 

"He  is  drunk,"  was  the  muttered  ejaculation  of  the  young  gentleman. 

"  Crazy  !"  thought  Mr.  Hopkins. 

"  Had  some  love-scene  with  the  girl — "  was  the  reflection  of  the  Cap- 
tain, who  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  somewhat  dangerous  to  the  sex, 
withal. 

However,  the  Merchant  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small  parcel,  carefully 
wrapped  in  yellow  tea-paper. 

"  A  sample  of  the  best  Havanna — received  'em  yesterday  from  Cuba — " 
and  he  handed  Reginald  a*cigar,  observing  at  the  same  time,  in  an  under- 
tone— "White  as  a  sheet,  by  George  !" 

Reginald  lighted  the  cigar,  and  placing  his  feet  upon  the  table,  soon  en- 
circled his  face  with  a  fragrant  cloud. 

"  The  fact  is,  gentlemen,"  he  exclaimed,  as  though  he  had  been 
silently  elaborating  some  previous  subject  of  discussion — "  The  Colonies 
will  not  dare  to  do  it.    They  will  talk,  but  they  dare  not  act — " 

And  in  a  moment  the  company  were  involved  in  the  mazes  of  a  politi- 
cal discussion,  which,  as  the  hour  was  daybreak,  and  three  of  their  num- 
ber stupid  with  the  bottle  and  pipe,  and  the  fourth  not  far  from  crazy, 
was,  in  every  point  of  view,  a  remarkable  event. 

"  They  may  dress  themselves  as  Injins,  and  attack  whole  cargoes  ol 
tea,  but  when  it  comes  to  musket  and  bayonet — B-a-h  ! — "  the  Captain 
was  decided  in  his  opinions.    There  was  a  profundity  in  his  "  B-a-h  !" 

"The  fact  is,  gentlemen,  to  look  at  the  subject  philosophically,  every 
thing  is  degenerated  in  this  country.    Instead  of  a  Church  Establishment, 


176  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

they  have  conventicles  of  drab-coated  Quakers.  Instead  of  a  King,  a  mob 
— and  in  place  of  law,  order  and  Christianity,  they  have  a  Continental 
Congress.  The  general  degeneracy,  gentlemen,  does  not  end  here.  It 
extends  from  the  political  to  the  alimentary  and  convivial  world.  The 
roast  beef  is  tough,  and  the  brandy  worse  than  medicine — " 

"  I  attended  some  of  their  big  talks,  at  Carpenter's  Hall,  in  September 
last,"  said  the  acute  Hopkins — "  There  were  some  fiery  speeches,  but 
4  Brag  is  a  good  dog,'  and  so  forth,  as  the  proverb  has  it." 

"The  idea  that  any  man  would  be  so  ridiculous  as  to — "  the  young 
man  possibly  may  have  meant  to  advance  some  profound  truth,  or  elabo- 
rate some  new  theory  in  political  philosophy,  but  he  concluded  with 
breaking  his  pipe,  and  calling  on  the  Captain  for  a  song. 

While  the  discussion  continued,  Reginald  smoked  in  silence,  which  was 
only  broken  by  an  occasional  word,  evidently  uttered  with  the  intention 
of  prolonging  the  argument.  There  was  no  change  in  the  unnatural 
pallor  of  his  face  ;  even  the  cigar,  mild  and  peaceful  in  its  effects,  failed  to 
dispel  the  sullen  gloom  which  clouded  his  features. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  whatever,  that  when  the  King  is  fully  informed  of 
the  proceedings  of  the  Continental  Congress,"  gravely  exclaimed  the 
Merchant,  "  and  put  in  possession  of  all  the  facts  connected  with  this 

matter,  he  will  exclaim,  with  an  indignation  truly  royal  Zounds  ! 

Captain,  my  pipe  has  gone  out,  and  I've  no  paper  to  light  it  again !" 

The  sedate  Hopkins  surveyed  his  pipe  with  an  expression  of  indescri- 
bable despair,  as  he  placed  these  mysterious  words  in  the  mouth  of  his 
dread  Majesty,  King  George. 

"  I  must  confess  that  your  figure  is  by  no  means  lucid,"  the  Captain 
remarked,  with  a  profundity  altogether  significant  of  beer  and  tobacco — 

"  What  in  the  d  1  has  King  George  and  the  Continental  Congress  to 

do  with  a  pipe  ?" 

"  Bah !  Captain,  this  pipe,  at  which  I  have  been  puffing  hopelessly 
for  the  last  minute,  is  cold  as  an  icicle.  Have  you  an  old  newspaper 
about  you— it's  so  unpleasant  to  light  one's  pipe  at  a  reeking  tallow- 
candle—" 

"  Not  an  old  newspaper,  but  a  new  one.  I  received  it  from  a  friend  to- 
day, who  came  over  by  the  last  ship.  Just  tear  a  strip  off  the  border ; 
don't  spoil  the  reading.    It  must  last  me  for  the  next  three  months." 

The  Captain  flung  the  paper  on  the  table,  and  Hopkins  began,  with 
great  care,  to  peel  a  narrow  strip  from  its  border,  muttering  meanwhile — 

"  British  Gazette  and  Chronicle.  '  Novem-b-er — eleventh — Hello  ! 
What  is  this  ?  *  Last  dying  speech  and  confession  of  Greeley,  the  notori- 
ous Pirate  hung  on  Tyburn, — '  " 

The  Merchant  dropped  his  pipe,  and  with  his  eye  rivetted  by  the  dingy 
type  of  the  London  paper,  perused  the  paragraph  which  arrested  his  atten- 
tion, with  undisguised,  but  by  no  means  sober  interest.    His  lips  moved 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


177 


unceasingly  in  a  ridiculous  grimace,  and  his  eyes  grew  idiotic,  in  a 
fixed  stare. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  cried  the  Captain,  taking  his  huge  boot  from 
the  table,  and  bending  forward  with  sudden  attention — "  Has  his  blessed 
Majesty  taken  cold,  or  is — the — Church  threatened  with  an  attack  of — " 
the  redoubtable  Captain  hesitated  for  a  word,  but  quietly  added,  after  a 
moment — "  epilepsy  ?" 

"Just  read  me  a  bit  of  fresh  Court  news,  will  you  ?"  suggested  Octavius. 

Hopkins,  however,  did  not  answer,  but,  growing  suddenly  pale,  con- 
tinued absorbed  in  the  perusal  of  the  paper. 

"  Reginald,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  read  that  ?"  With  his  finger 
placed  upon  the  particular  paragraph,  he  handed  the  paper  across  the 
table.  The  young  man,  absorbed  in  a  revery,  aid  not  seem  to  hear  him 
at  first,  but  the  Merchant,  starting  up  from  his  seat,  held  the  paper  before 
his  face. 

"  Read  that,  if  you  please  the  date  of  the  paper  is  the  same  as  your 

father's  letter,  but  it  is  plain  that  he  had  not  seen  the  1  Gazette  and 
Chronicle'  when  he  wrote  to  you." 

The  agitation  of  Hopkins  excited  the  attention  of  the  young  man,  whose- 
features  were  Clouded  by  apathetic  gloom.    Seizing  the  paper,  he  cast  his 
eyes  over  its  columns,  examined  the  date,  surveyed  the  advertisements 
and  the  intelligence  from  court,  the  debates  in  Parliament  and  the  an- 
nouncements of  the  theatre. 

"  It  does  not  interest  me,"  he  said,  with  a  vague  stare — "  I  see  nothing 
here — " 

"  That  paragraph,"  cried  Hopkins  in  his  shrillest  tone,  while,  bending 
over  the  table,  his  long  nose  almost  touched  the  face  of  Reginald. 

The  young  man  beheld  the  paragraph  designated  by  the  Merchant, 
whose  face  betrayed  such  singular  emotion. 

In  silence  he  read,  while  the  boon  companions  anxiously  marked  the 
sudden  changes  of  his  handsome  countenance.  The  agitation  of  Reginald 
was  appalling.  He  surveyed  the  paper  with  the  glare  of  a  madman, 
crushed  it  in  his  hands,  and  scattered  it  in  fragments  on  the  table. 

"Look  ye — "  he  gasped,  as  he  placed  his  hand  on  the  Merchant's 
shoulder — "  You  will  find  the  object  of  your  search  in  the  valley  of  the 
Wissahikon.    Her  name  is  Madeline — she  dwells  in — " 

As  though  maddened  by  some  memory  of  this  eventful  night,  he  turned 
hastily  away — the  half-finished  sentence  on  his  lips — and  fled  with  un- 
steady steps  from  the  room.  As  he  reached  the  threshold,  the  light  of  the 
rising  sun  streamed  over  his  haggard  face,  and  disclosed  his  eyes,  the 
lids  inflamed  and  the  balls  discolored  by  injected  blood. 

"I  must  away,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  his  back  was  to  the  room 
and  its  occupants,  his  face  to  the  rising  sun — "  The  horses  wait  for  me  at 
Cooper's  woods,  and  a  ship  sails  from  New  York  to-morrow—" 

12 


178  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

He  crossed  the  threshold,  and  heard  his  name  pronounced  by  a  voice 
more  hollow  and  despair-stricken  than  his  own.  By  the  light  of  the 
fresh  winter  dawn,  he  beheld  a  face  on  which  were  stamped  the  indica- 
tions of  an  ineffaceable  despair. 

**  You  here — "  he  cried,  and  staggered  backward  in  affright.-—"  Whence 
come  you  ?" 

And  a  voice,  faint  and  whispering,  gave  answer — 
"  From  Wissahikon  !" 

While  these  scenes  occurred  at  the  Old  London  Coffee  House,  in 
Philadelphia,  events  as  strange  and  varied  in  their  interest  took  place  in 
the  glen  of  Wissahikon,  seven  miles  away.    Let  us  retrace  our  steps. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEENTH. 

"  Paul,  the  Stranger  wrote  his  name  upon  a  piece  of  parchment,  which 
I  have  enclosed  and  sealed  within  this  paper,  in  the  form  of  a  letter.  I 
have  not  looked  upon  that  name,  nor  must  you  know  it  until  the  time  for 
action  arrives.  It  cannot  be  long  ere  blood  must  be  shed.  Perhaps,  a 
few  months  will  elapse,  or  another  year  may  pass  before  the  first  blood 
will  flow.  There  will  be  a  battle — many  battles — armies  will  be  swept 
away — this  new  land  grow  rich  in  graves.  But  when  the  time  arrives, 
you  will  break  the  seal  of  this  letter,  read  the  name  of  the  Deliverer,  and 
obey  the  words  which  you  will  find  written  beneath  that  name.  Promise, 
my  son,  solemnly  promise,  that  you  will  not  break  the  seal,  until  a  year 
has  gone — " 

The  light  which  the  old  man  held  in  his  thin  hand — marked  by  pro- 
minent veins — cast  its  rays  along  the  gloom  of  the  corridor,  which  tra- 
versed the  Block-house  or  Monastery  from  east  to  west.  At  one  end 
was  the  narrow  staircase  leading  into  the  upper  rooms  or  cells  of  the  edi- 
fice ;  at  the  other  the  door,  opening  upon  the  gate.  Near  the  door  stood 
the  old  clock,  whose  monotonous  ticking  was  heard  distinctly  through 
the  stillness.  On  either  side  appeared  the  doors  of  the  rooms  on  the 
lower  floor  of  the  mansion. 

They  stood  before  a  door  of  dark  walnut,  whose  panels  were  obscured 
by  spider-webs.    It  had  not  been  opened  for  many  years. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  Ii9 

Paul  surveyed  the  high  forehead  and  clear  blue  eyes  of  his  Father,  with 
a  glance  which  mingled  reverence  with  something  of  awe. 

k'  I  promise,  Father,"  he  said — "  Until  a  year  has  passed,  I  will  not 
break  the  seal." 

11  Come  hither,  Paul  :"  the  old  man  had  taken  a  rusted  key  from  the 
folds  of  his  robe,  and  inserted  it  in  the  lock  of  the  walnut  door — "  Enter 
this  chamber,  and  listen  while  I  speak." 

The  candle  which  the  Father  carried  in  an  iron  candlestick,  revealed  a 
small  apartment,  square  in  form,  and  without  windows  or  furniture  of  any 
kind.  It  was  panelled  with  dark  walnut.  In  the  centre  of  the  iloor  arose 
an  altar  or  table  covered  with  black  cloth,  moth-eaten  and  obscured  by 
spider-webs,  and  on  this  altar  an  urn  of  white  alabaster  was  visible. 

With  a  sensation  of  involuntary  fear,  Paul  crossed  the  threshold,  and 
beheld  the  gloomy  features  of  this  coffin-like  chamber.  His  father's  pale 
face  was  agitated  by  an  emotion,  which  resembled  the  rapture  or  madness 
of  an  inspire^  Prophet.  His  eyes  shone  with  deeper  light;  a  joy  that 
might  well  have  been  called  holy,  radiated  over  his  high  narrow  forehead 
and  trembled  on  his  lips. 

"  Paul — you  behold  this  sealed  packet.  I  place  it  within  the  urn. 
Kneel,  my  son.  beside  the  altar,  and  promise  that  you  will  not  break  the 
seal  until  a  year  has  passed." 

At  his  father's  feet  the  young  man  knelt,  while  his  bronzed  face,  lighted 
by  dark  eves,  and  shadowed  by  masses  of  rich  brown  hair,  was  strongly 
contrasted  with  the  pale  face,  blue  eyes,  and  snow-white  locks  of  the 
old  man. 

"  I  promise,  Father  !"  ' 

The  Father,  after  gazing  for  a  moment  upon  the  urn,  which  stood  out 
vividly  from  the  dark  background,  led  the  way  from  the  chamber.  He 
locked  the  door,  and  again  addressed  his  son — 

"Kneel  once  more.  Take  this  key,  and  swear  that  you  will  not  un- 
lock the  door  of  this  room,  until  a  year  has  passed." 

"  I  swear,  Father  !"  said  Paul,  as  he  knelt  in  the  dust  of  the  corridor, 
the  light  shining  warmly  over  his  thoughtful  face.  He  clutched  the 
rusted  key  with  an  involuntary  earnestness. 

"  Come  hither,  Paul ;"  and  the  old  man  led  his  son  for  a  few  paces 
along  the  corridor.  They  stood  before  a  door  of  black  walnut,  on  whose 
cobweb  hung  panels  a  cross  was  rudely  traced.  At  the  sight  of  that 
door,  all  that  was  calm  or  rapturous  passed  from  the  old  man's  face,  and 
his  down-drawn  brow  and  tightened  lips  indicated  emotions  of  a  far  dif- 
ferent nature. 

"  Father,  you  are  not  well — the  night  air  chills  you — "  said  Paul,  with 
evident  anxiety. 

The  old  man's  thin  lips  moved,  but  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  not  the  phy- 
sical power  to  frame  an  audible  sound. 


160  PAUL  ARDEjS1  HEIM  ;  OR, 

Paul  gazed' upon  his  father  with  speechless  anxiety  and  wonder. 
"  Let  me  see  your  hand,  my  son — " 
Paul  extended  his  hand — 
"  It  is  a  fair  hand, — as  white  and  delicate  as  a  woman's  hand — and 
yet—" 

The  Father  dropped  the  hand  with  a  shudder. 

"  Father,  you  are  cold — let  me  assist  you  to  your  chamber — the  night 
is  far  spent — and  it  is  very  cold  in  this  corridor — " 

In  a  moment,  the  peculiar  emotion  which  stamped  the  old  man's  face 
with  so  much  of  horror  and  fear,  passed  away.  He  was  calm  again  ;  his 
blue  eyes  shining  with  steady  light,  while  his  long  white  hair  trembled 
gently  aside  from  his  colorless  forehead. 

"Kneel  once  more — " 

Paul  knelt  at  his  father's  feet. 

The  old  man  extended  his  thin  white  hand,  and  placed  iis  slender  fin- 
gers upon  the  brown  locks  of  his  son.  Both  father  and  son  were 
attired  in  robes  of  dark  velvet,  somewhat  faded  and  worn ;  on  the 
shrunken  chest  of  the  old  man,  and  the  firm,  manly  bosom  of  his  son, 
shone  a  silver  Cross. 

Around  them  was  the  silence  of  night,  only  broken  by  the  distant 
echoes  of  the  winter  wind. 

"  Repeat  after  me,  my  son,  a  solemn  vow — " 

Paul  clasped  his  hands  upon  his  breast,  and  cast  his  eyes  to  the  floor, 
trembling,  he  knew  not  why,  at  the  touch  of  his  father's  hand,  at  the  sound 
of  his  voice. 

And  then,  in  accents  bold  and  deep,  he  repeated  the  words  which  came 
from  the  lips  of  his  Father  : 

"i,  Paul,  devoted  to  God  from  my  birth,  do  vow  by  his  holy  name, 
never  to  enter  the  door  of  this  scaled  chamber,  before  which  I  kneel,  and 
whose  surface  bears  the  sign  of  the  cross,  until  " 

The  old  man  paused,  and  veiled  his  eyes,  while  Paul  looked  up  in 
wonder. 

He  awaited  the  conclusion  of  the  oath,  but  his  Father  did  not  utter  the 
closing  words,  until  a  pause  of  some  moments. 

"  Until — "  repeated  Paul,  looking  earnestly  into  his  father's  face. 

"  Until  my  father  is  dead — "  said  the  old  man,  his  voice  tremulou;.  and 
his  eyes  shaded  by  his  hand. 

Paul  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then,  his  eyes  swimming  in  moisture, 
slowly  repeated  the  words — "  Until  my  father  is  dead." 

"  And  if  you  fail  in  this,  Paul,  the  Curse  of  God  will  descend  upon  you, 
and  blight  you  into  a  hopeless  grave  !" 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Paul  beheld  an  expression  of  fierceness — 
anger — rest  upon  the  face  of  his  Father. 

"  Dost  thou  hear,  my  son  ?"  continued  the  old  man,  clasping  his  wrist. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  181 

"  I  hear  father,  and  will  obey,"  said  Paul,  looking  with  reverence  into 
the  venerable  face,  whose  blue  eyes  gazed  fixedly  into  his  own.  "  Have 
I  ever  disobeyed  you  ?  Can  the  time  ever  come,  when  I  will  cease  to 
obey  ?" 

The  old  man  pressed  his  hand  kindly  upon  the  forehead  of  his  son. 

"  God's  peace  be  upon  you,  Paul,"  he  said,  and,  light  in  hand,  hurried 
along  the  corridor  toward  his  chamber.  It  was  his  nightly  farewell  to 
his  child  which  he  had  spoken.  Paul  arose,  -and,  gazing  upon  the  reced- 
ing form  of  his  father,  entered  the  door  opposite  that  of  the  sealed 
chamber. 

Ere  an  instant  had  passed,  he  had  crossed  the  threshold,  and  by  the 
light  of  a  fading  lamp,  beheld  the  familiar  features  of  his  own  room. 

The  lamp  stood  on  a  desk,  and,  struggling  with  the  gloom,  revealed  the 
details  of  a  small  chamber,  with  a  rude  couch  in  one  corner,  a  window  at 
its  head,  whose  shutters  were  fast  closed  and  bolted,  and  a  range  of  shelves 
near  the  desk,  burdened  with  dusky  volumes. 

Paul  seated  himself  in  the  oaken  chair,  near  the  desk,  and,  resting  his 
cheek  upon  his  hand,  fixed  his  eyes  sadly  upon  the  light,  and  surrendered 
himself  to  his  thoughts. 

Those  thoughts  were  at  once  varied  and  tumultuous.  His  breath  came 
in  gasps,  as  he  sat  enveloped  by  the  gloom  and  silence  of  the  chamber; 
his  eye  grew  large  and  vacant  in  its  glance. 

What  power  of  language  may  picture  the  nature  of  that  hour  of  solitary 
meditation  ? 

Now  his  eye  wandered  to  the  shelves,  burdened  with  massive  volumes, 
with  clasps  of  steel  and  silver.  There  were  the  works  of  the  Astrologers 
and  Alchemists  of  the  past  ages,  mingled  with  the  writings  of  the  spiritual 
dreamers  and  religious  mystics  of  Germany,  in  the  sixteenth  century. 
From  boyhood,  nay,  from  very  childhood,  Paul  had  dwelt  upon  their  pages, 
and  as  his  mind — gifted  by  the  Almighty  with  a  power  as  strange  as  it  was 
peculiar — grew  into  form,  it  had  been  moulded  and  colored  by  these  written 
Thoughts  of  Astrology,  Alchemy,  and  Mysticism. 

And  amid  the  large  volumes  were  two  small  books,  which  more  than 
once  attracted  the  gaze  of  Paul,  as  he  sat  absorbed  in  that  silent  self-com- 
munion. The  only  books,  indeed,  which  were  not  devoted  to  the  dreams 
of  Astrology  or  Alchemy,  or  the  bewildering  frenzies  of  Religious  Mysti- 
ticism.  Plainly  bound,  their  covers  indicating  much  service,  they  bore 
two  rudely  emblazoned  names;  one  was  "Shakspeare — "  the  other, 
"Milton." 

How  the  heart  of  Paul  bounded  within  him,  as  he  thought  of  the  day 
when,  from  an  obscure  corner  of  a  neglected  chest,  he  had  drawn  forth 
these  priceless  volumes ! 

Near  his  elbow  was  another  volume;  it  was  open,  and  its  broad  pages 
bore  the  bold,  firm  characters  of  the  Hebrew  tongue.    It  was  the  Bible — 


182 


| 

PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


the  Old  Testament  and  the  New  in  one  language — which  Paul  had  read 
for  years ;  the  only  copy  of  the  Book  which  he  possessed.  Dearer  he 
prized  it,  than  all  his  works  of  Alchemy  or  Astrology,  dearer  even  than 
the  reveries  of  Religious  Enthusiasm  ;  it  was,  to  his  soul,  a  thousandfold 
more  precious  than  the  pages  of  those  seers  of  the  heart,  Shakspeare  and 
Milton. 

For  from  that  boldly  printed  Hebrew  volume,  the  Lord  God  of  Heaven 
and  Earth  talked  to  him,  the  unknown  Boy  of  Wissahikon,  and  talked  in 
the  language  of  the  Other  World.  The  Hebrew  did  not  seem  to  him  the 
language  of  men,  but  the  awful  and  mysterious  tongue  of  Angels.  Its 
syllables  of  music  rolled,  full  and  deep,  into  his  soul,  as  though  a  spirit 
stood  by  him,  while  he  read,  pronouncing  the  words,  whose  meaning  pene- 
trated his  brain. 

Does  it  not  seem  to  you  a  thought  of  some  interest  and  beauty? 

Here,  enshrouded  in  the  gloom  and  silence  of  this  cell  of  the  Wissa- 
hikon Monastery,  sits  the  Boy  of  Nineteen,  shut  out  from  all  the  world — 
its  experience — its  love  and  hate — a  vague  blank  to  him. 

And  yet,  as  he  glances  over  the  Hebrew  page,  his  soul,  escaping  from 
the  narrow  room,  goes  out  into  a  distant  land,  where  the  palm  trees  stand 
in  the  noonday  sun,  by  the  shore  of  the  mysterious  Jordan,  or  where  the 
waves,  creeping  up  the  beach  of  Galilee,  break  in  ripples  at  the  feet  of  the 
God  enshrined  in  flesh. 

Or,  he  is  amid  the  silence  and  shadow  of  that  Eden  whose1  joy  was 
without  a  pang,  whose  flowers  concealed  no  poison,  whose  naked  Eve 
came,  sinlessly  and  without  shame,  to  the  lake,  and  saw  the  serene  sky 
arch  above  her,  the  clear  waters  smile  at  her  feet.  Then  with  the  builders 
of  the  Babel  Tower — with  the  earnest  Moses,  leading  forth  from  Serfdom 
a  nation  of  slaves,  and  leading  them  to  Civilization  and  Religion — with 
the  warrior-poet  David,  whose  love  to  Jonathan  is  beautiful  even  now, 
after  the  lapse  of  the  many  thousand  centuries — with  Isaiah  the  Beautiful 
and  Job  the  sublime — or,  last  of  all,  and  most,  beautiful  of  all,  with  that 
toil-worn  face,  which  one  day  looked  forth  from  the  hut  of  a  carpenter, 
and  said  to  all  the  world — "  God,  enshrined  in  flesh  and  toil,  has  come  to 
walk  like  a  Brother  among  ye  the  sons  of  men." 

The  thoughts  of  Paul,  at  this  still  hour,  dwell  not  altogether  upon  the 
pages  of  the  Hebrew  Bible,  nor  do  they  wander  in  the  fairy  world  of 
Shakspeare,  or  with  the  terrible  Phantoms  of  Milton. 

"  It  is  strange — but  it  is  true  !  The  words,  the  very  tone  of  my  father, 
seem  to  call  me  suddenly  into  a  new  life.  I  stand  upon  the  Present  and 
survey  the  Past,  with  fear — with  trembling.  A  singular  life  has  been 
mine.  Bred  afar  from  the  world— within  the  walls  of  this  forest  home — 
the  only  faces  familiar  to  me,  are  the  faces  of  my  Father  and  Catherine. 
Beyond  those  faces,  beyond  the  forest  home  lies  the  great  world,  a  dim 
chaos,  whose  darkness  is  not  enlightened  by  a  single  star.    Our  life  has 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  183 

been  very  rude  in  this  forest  home.  Our  fare  simple,  our  attire  such  as 
was  worn  by  our  ancestors.  We  have  neither  decked  ourselves  in  gay 
apparel,  nor  slain  a  living  thing  in  order  to  pamper  appetite.  Water  from 
the  spring — bread  from  the  corn  that  grows  in  the  fields,  beyond  the 
\f  oods — the  fruits  of  summer  and  the  bloodless  produce  of  the  garden — 
such  has  been  the  fare,  for  years,  of  the  old  man  of  Wissahikon  and  his 
children. 

"  Had  i  eaten  of  flesh,  or  drunken  of  wine,  there  might  mingle  with  my 
blood  an  impetuous  desire  to  see  the  great  world,  and  join  in  its  relent, 
less  war  for  fame  and  gold.  But  here,  within  these  walls,  my  life  shall 
glide  gently  on,  until  it  flows,  without  a  murmur,  into  that  great  Ocean 
which  Men  call  Death. 

"But  this  Oath — the  Sealed  Chamber — the  strange  agitation  of  my 
Father? 

"What  are  his  plans  in  regard  to  my  Future?  The  Deliverer  for 
whose  coming  we  watched  so  long,  came  but  an  hour  ago — Wherefore 
does  my  father  say  to  me,  'Wait  one  year  P  or  *  Until  I  am  dead, 
PaulP 

"I  have  never  heard  myself  addressed  by  any  other  name  than  Paul 
Ardenheim — my  father's  name  is  also  unknown  to  me.  Hold !  Black 
David,  the  deformed,  who  sometimes  comes  to  the  Monastery,  and  bears 
messages  for  my  father  to  the  city,  may  know  our  name.  Shall  I 
ask  him? 

"  No  !  It  is  not  for  me  to  lift  the  curtain  which  enshrouds  my  father's 
secrets,  and  conceals  his  purposes  from  my  view.  It  is  for  me  to  sit  at 
his  feet,  to  wait  in  patience.  But — the  future  of  Catherine  ? — Shall  she 
dwell  for  ever  in  this  home  ?  She  is  so  fair,  so  beautiful, — and  yet  so 
heaven-like  in  her  beauty, — so  like  one  of  those  women  of  whom  the 
Prophet  Shakspeare  speaks,  that  I  could  weep  to  think  of  her  dying 
within  these  walls,  neglected  and  unknown !" 

You  will  remember,  that  Paul  applied  the  word  "  Prophet"  alike  to 
Shakspeare  and  Milton.  They  had  received  their  intellect  from  Cod,  and 
all  that  was  good  in  them  was  God-like ;  therefore — so  the  crude  Enthu- 
siast reasoned— they  were  his  Prophets,  whenever  they  enunciated  a  divine 
thought  or  embodied  a  holy  truth. 

"I  cannot  banish  the  thought.  It  seems  to  encircle  me,  and  force  me 
to  answer  its  mysterious  questions.  It  is  the  thought  of  the  mystery 
which  overshadows  our  life, — all  dark  as  I  look  to  the  past,  darker  yet  as 
I  gaze  into  the  future.  Father  !  Father  !  Would  that  the  time  were  here, 
when,  placing  me  on  one  hand,  and  Catherine  on  the  other,  your  lips 
could  tell  to  us  the  history  of  your  life,  and  the  history  of  ours  !" 

Paul  felt  his  brow  grow  feverish  as  it  rested  upon  his  hand,  while  his 
dilating  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  half-shadowed  w.alls  of  his  room.  It 
was  an  impressive  scene.    That  narrow  chamber,  dimly  lighted,  with  the 


184 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


form  of  that  darkly  attired  Enthusiast  seated  in  the  centre  of  its  light  and 
gloom,  his  bronzed  face  and  earnest  eyes  manifesting  thought  at  once 
intense  and  bewildering. 

Paul  arose  and  paced  the  floor. 

It  came  upon  him  suddenly,'  like  a  burst  of  voluptuous  music,  like  a 
gush  of  intoxicating  perfume,  like  a  dream  of  fragrance  and  moonbeams 

—  the  memory  of  the  beautiful  woman  whom  he  had  seen  to-night,  for  the 
first  time.  ^ 

His  cell  was  full  of  gloom,  but  even  in  the  gloom  he  could  see  her 
flashing  eyes,— it  was  very  still  in  the  old  Block-house,  but  through  the 
stillness  he  could  hear  her  voice,  whispering  words  of  wild,  boundless 
passion. 

Wherever  he  turned,  he  saw  a  vision  of  a  beautiful  form,  whose  bosom, 
half-reveajed,  panted  slowly  into  light,  and  throbbed  into  warm  loveliness, 
beneath  his  gaze. 

It  seemed  as  though  the  vision  had  rushed  upon  him  like  the  frenzy  of 
a  fever — his  heart  beat  in  tumultuous  throbs — he  gasped  for  breath,  and 
wildly  stretching  forth  his  hands,  tottered  to  the  chair. 

Veiling  his  eyes,  he  endeavored  to  banish  that  voluptuous  image.  But 
she  was  there,  before  him — he  felt  her  hand  trembling  softly  over  his 
forehead — her  breath  upon  his  cheek.  Again,  her  darkly  flowing  hair 
swept  over  his  face;  again  his  blood  was  ice  and  flame  by  turns,  as  her 
voice  whispered  gently — "  I  have  waited  for  you,  Paul.    Have  loved  you 

—  and  am  yours  for  ever  !" 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  voluptuous  frenzy,  that  Paul  cast  his  glance 
toward  the  light,  and  for  the  first  time  beheld  a  letter,  inscribed  with 
these  words — *  To  my  son.' 

"  It  is  from  my  father.  He  must  have  written  it  last  night,  before  the 
Deliverer  came.  I  will  banish  the  maddening  memory — and  yet — she  is 
very — very  beautiful !" 

He  broke  the  seal,  and  read  the  letter,  traced  in  the  tremulous  hand  of 
his  father. 

Sunset,  December  31,  1774. 

My  Son— 

In  case  the  hope,  in  which  I  have  lived  for  seventeen  years,  proves 
false,  and  the  Deliverer  for  whom  we  have  waited  in  Prayer,  for  so  many 

years,  does  not  come  even  then,  Paul,  it  is  my  purpose  to  fulfil,  with 

regard  to  you,  the  command  of  the  Lord.  From  your  infancy  you  have 
been  devoted  to  God.  You  have  been  sacred  from  the  world,  set  apart 
from  the  faces  of  men.  The  relentless  lust  of  traffic,  the  feverish  desires 
of  ambition,  the  hollow  sophistries  and  cold  selfishness  of  the  great  world, 
have  not  polluted  your  virgin  intellect.  You  have  bloomed  into  life  in 
the  wilderness — a  life,  pure  and  serene  as  the  stars.  Therefore,  to-morrow, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


185 


at  the  hour  of  sunset,  I  will  fulfil  the  purpose  of  my  heart,  and  solemnly 
dedicate  you  to  God. 

Behold  the  manner  of  this  dedication. 

The  upper  rooms  of  our  mansion  you  have  never  seen.  They  are 
sealed  to  all  human  eyes,  and  have  been  for  years.  But  when  you  tra- 
verse the  corridor  which  extends  between  those  rooms,  you  will  read  on 
those  closed  doors,  the  names  of  Anselm — Joseph — Immanuel. 

These  were  my  brothers,  not  in  the  flesh,  but  in  the  spirit.  With  me 
they  left  Germany, — left  house  and  home, — and  we  came  into  the  wil- 
derness together.  Together,  in  these  woods,  we  reared  the  altar  of  our 
Brotherhood.    Our  creed  was  simple — Love  to  Man  is  Love  to  God. 

While  you  were  but  a  child,  and  Catherine  scarcely  a  babe  of  two 
years,  they  died,  these  brothers  of  my  heart,  and  left  me  alone  in  the  old 
mansion.  In  their  death-hour,  I  vowed  a  solemn  vow  that  you  and  Cathe- 
rine should  be  devoted  to  the  great  work  of  our  Religion.  I  vowed  k, 
clasping  their  chilled  hands,  with  their  glassy  eyes  fixed  upon  me — vowed 
it  to  each  one  as  he  sunk  back  in  the  wave  of  death.  A  month  or  more 
intervened  between  their  deaths — in  the  space  of  half  a  year  they  all 
were  gathered  to  the  grave. 

— To-morrow  I  will  solemnly  dedicate  you  to  the  work  which  those 
brothers  loved  all  their  lives,  and  clung  to  with  unfaltering  faith  in  the 
hour  of  death. 

You  will  be  called  upon,  first  of  all,  to  take  this  vow — "  In  the  presence 
of  God,  and  surrounded  by  the  skeletons  of  the  Brothers  of  the  good 
cause,  I  do  vow  to  devote  all  my  efforts,  to  bend  my  life,  my  intellect, 
my  wealth,  to  the  progress  of  that  cause. 

"And  in  order  that  my  strength  may  not  be  weakened,  my  heart  clogged, 
or  my  brain  clouded  by  any  tie  of  earth,  or  taint  of  earthly  passion,  I  do 
further  solemnly  vow,  in  the  presence  of  the  dead,  never  to  contract  mar- 
riage, nor  to  look  upon  a  woman  with  the  eye  of  sensual  love.  My  only 
bride  shall  be  the  good  cause — my  only  hope  and  aim  in  life,  its  final 
success." 

Are  you  ready  for  this  vow,  my  son  ?  Let  your  time  be  passed  in 
Prayer,  so  that  the  hour  of  sunset  to-morrow  does  not  find  you  unpre- 
pared. 

Your  Father. 

While  the  young  man  perused  this  paper,  his  face  indicated  powerful 
emotion.  There  was  no  color  in  his  rounded  cheeks,  when  he  came  to 
the  last  words.  The  paper  fell  from  his  hands,  and,  with  a  sudden  failure 
of  all  physical  or  mental  strength,  he  sank  unconscious  in  his  chair. 

The  lamp,  glimmering  with  a  faint  lustre  over  his  marked  features  and 
motionless  form,  seemed  not  to  disclose  a  living  but  a  dead  man.  The 
stern  mental  contest  which  had  shook  his  reason  to  its  centre,  and  de- 


186  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

prived  his  strong  mind  of  its  native  vigor,  left  him  stiffened  and  cold  in 
every  nerve. 

It  was  after  a  long  pause  that  he  awoke  from  his  stupor,  but  with  his 
first  glance  of  consciousness  he  beheld  his  father's  letter.  At  once  he 
started  from  his  seat,  and  pulling  forth  a  drawer,  which  was  concealed  in 
the  side  of  the  desk,  he  was  about  to  place  the  letter  with  the  manuscripts 
which  the  drawer  contained,  when  his  attention  was  suddenly  enchained 
by  a  new  object  of  wonder.  A  slip  of  paper,  not  more  than  two  inches 
in  breadth,  lay  on  the  manuscripts,  its  bold  characters  standing  blackly 
out  from  the  white  surface.  On  this  paper,  IJaul  beheld  a  few  words, 
written  in  a  quaint  and  vigorous  old  English  character.  The  ink  was 
scarcely  dried ;  the  paper  was  different  in  quality  from  any  he  used  ; 
indeed,  as  Paul-,  ere  perusing  its  words,  held  it  between  his  eyes  and  the 
light,  he  beheld  the  date  of  its  fabrication,  woven  in  its  texture,  sur- 
mounted by  a  British  Crown  and  coat  of  arms.    That  date  was 

1590. 

"  The  ink  is  scarcely  dried — I  have  no  paper  like  this  in  my  desk,  nor 
have  I  ever  seen  any  thing  of  this  kind  in  possession  of  my  father.  The 

character  is  strange  but  let  me. read  it  first,  before  wasting  the  time  in 

vague  conjectures—" 

^timigljt,  ©etemuet  31, 1774. 

Co  Paul,  -Baton  of  2fitoenl)enn : 

Cljau  jsezke^t  to  fenotaj*     fitter  tije  boot  mitlj  tije  €to$0  upon  itg 
panels   .^earclj  tiyz  litn-   iClje  $a£t  anu  future  toill  uc  openeo  to  tljee- 

"  There  is  no  signature,"  exclaimed  Paul,  as  he  sunk  back  in  the  chair, 
utterly  bewildered — "  The  mystery  of  my  life  grows  darker  !  Who 
placed  this  paper  in  my  drawer  ?  Whose  hand  traced  these  singular 
words  ?  Can  it  be  that  my  father  wishes  to  test  my  faithfulness  to  the 
vow  which  I  took  upon  myself  not  a  few  moments  ago  ?  But  no — it  is 
not  my  father's  hand.  These  words  were  written  by  a  firm  hand,  whose 
nerves  knew  not  a  single  tremor  of  weariness  or  age.  Oh,  for  a  ray  of 
light  to  shine  upon  this  mystery  !" 

Again  he  examined  the  paper  ;  the  ink  was  very  black,  the  writing  dis- 
tinct and  bold.  The  "  water-mark,"  or  date  of  the  fabrication  of  the 
paper,  was  seen  clearly,  as  he  held  it  before  the  light— 1590. 

"  i  Enter  the  door  with  the  Cross  upon  its  panels  !'  It  would  be  per- 
jury. 4  Search  the  urn — '  there  is  an  urn  within  the  Sealed  Chamber- 
but,  I  must  not  think  of  it.  It  would  be  treason  to  my  father — yes,  the 
shame  of  falsehood  would  blister  on  my  forehead.  It  cannot  for  a 
moment  influence  my  thoughts,  this  idle  message  sent  to  me  by  unknown 
hands — " 

While  these  thoughts,  half-uttered,  flashed  through  the  brain  of  Paul, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  187 

the  words:  "Enter  the  door  with  the  Cross  upon  its  panels,"  rang  un- 
ceasingly in  his  ears. 

The  paper  fell  from  his  hands,  and  rested  on  the  desk  beside  his 
father's  letter. 

"  The  Past  and  the  Future  will  be  opened  to  thee  !'' 

Paul  heard  these  words,  as  though  a  spirit  had,  spoken  them  gently  in 
his  ears. 

"  I  swore  a  solemn  oath,  that  I  would  not  "  he  uttered  the  words, 

and  starting  from  his  seat,  paced  up  and  down  the  floor  of  his  narrow 
room. 

All  was  breathlessly  still — he  could  hear  the  ticking  of  the  old  clock, 
which  stood  at  the  remote  end  of  the  corridor,  or  hall — it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  could  also  hear  the  frenzied  throbbings  of  his  heart. 

He  was  lost  in  a  wilderness  of  conflicting  thought.  He  was  at  once 
possessed  by  a  yearning  desire  to  know  the  mystery  of  his  life,  and  with 
a  terrible  consciousness  of  the  guilt  which  would  darken  his  soul,  in  case 
he  violated  his  oath. 

"  Paul,  Baron  of  Ardenheim,"  he  muttered — "Baron  of  Ardenheim  ! 
I  have  heard  those  words  before  !  To-night — it  was  when  I  stood  on  the 
rock  of  Wissahikon.  Baron  Ardenheim  !  Is  it  my  father's  title,  the 
name  by  which  he  was  known  in  the  great  world  ?" 

Paul  took  the  lamp,  and  went  from  that  cell — the  dearest  home  of  his 
hours  of  thought — and  closing  the  door,  stood  in  the  gloom  of  the  corri- 
dor. An  unbroken  stillness  prevailed.  The  lamp  revealed  the  door  on 
which  the  figure  of  a  Cross  was  traced — shone  distinctly  upon  its  panels, 
while  all  around  was  gloom.  Paul's  features  became  violently  agitated  as 
he  glanced  upon  the  door ;  he  stood  like  a  man  bewildered  by  a  super- 
natural spell,  gazing  upon  the  dim  Cross  with  expanded  eyes. 

"The  Past  and  the  Future  shall  be  opened  to  thee!"  he  murmured, 
and  advanced  a  single  step. 

Then  came  another  pause,  in  which  Paul  stood  without  motion  in  the 
centre  of  the  corridor,  his  face  colorless,  his  eyes  expanded  and  un- 
naturally brilliant. 

"  No  !  No  !  In  the  name  of  God,  I  dare  not  think  of  it ! — Yet  the 
Past  is  to  me  a  dim  chaos — the  Future  a  starless  midnight,  peopled  only 
by  phantoms  *  *  *  r  No  !  I  will  to  my  father's  couch,  and  press  my 
kiss  upon  his  lips  as  he  slumbers,  and  then  come  back  to  my  room  again 
to  bury  these  fearful  thoughts  in  Prayer  !" 

Passing  along  the  corridor — the  old  clock  throbbing  all  the  while 
through  the  breathless  stillness — he  saw  that  the  door  of  the  room  next 
to  his  own  was  slightly  opened. 

It  was  his  sister's  chamber. 

Inclining  his  head  toward  the  dark  panels,  he  listened  

All  was  still,  save  the  low,  soft  breathing  of  the  sinless  sleeper 


188  •  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  God's  blessing  upon  thee  !  There  are  no  frightful  phantoms  to  mar 
thy  rest — no  infernal  temptation  scares  thy  soul  from  its  dreams.  And 
yet — it  is  a  strange  thought — thy  fate  is  like  unto  mine.  Thou  must  take 
the  vow,  and  swear  with  me,  never  to  look  with  love  upon  the  form  of  a 
living  thing  " 

His  brow  clouded  by  a  sombre  expression,  Paul  passed  on,  his  face 
agitated  in  every  feature.  Next  came  the  door  of  the  old  man's  chamber. 
Paul  bent  his  head  toward  its  panels — all  was  silent — his  father  slept. 

Softly  unclosing  the  door,  Paul  passed  the  threshold,  the  light  glim- 
mering dimly  over  the  details  of  a  cell-like  place,  with  a  rude  couch  in 
one  corner.  With  a  noiseless  footstep  Paul  advanced  to  the  couch,  and 
saw  the  form  of  his  father,  prostrate  in  slumber,  the  profile  of  his  aged 
face  turned  toward  the  light.  He  had  flung  himself  upon  the  plain  bed 
without  removing  the  dark  robe  from  his  spare  limbs,  and  as  he  slept,  the 
silver  cross  shone  like  a  point  of  flame  upon  his  breast. 

His  eyes  were  closed,  his  face  very  calm,  and  the  light  imparted  a 
faint  glow  to  his  snow-white  hair. 

Beside  his  bed,  his  lips  firmly  set,  and  his  eyes  glaring  from  the  fixed 
brows,  stood  his  son,  whose  broad  chest  heaved  with  violent  agitation,  as 
he  silently  surveyed  the  calm  image  of  venerable  age  which  slumbered 
before  him. 

Moved  by  the  violent  throbbings  of  his  heart,  the  Cross  which  he  wore 
now  disappeared,  and  as  suddenly  flashed  into  the  light  again. 

As  the  eye  of  Paul  became  more  accustomed  to  the  gloom  of  his 
father's  narrow  room,  he  beheld  a  singular  statue  which  rose  at  the 
head  of  his  couch,  starting  from  a  recess  in  the  panelled  walls.  Paul 
beheld  this  statue  with  an  involuntary  tremor,  for  the  words  which  his 
father  had  many  times  spoken  to  him,  came  vividly  to  his  memory,  at 
this  lone  hour  of  night  and  thought. 

"When  Man  is  free  from  all  manner  of  bondage,  when  the  mission  of 
the  Redeemer  has  done  its  perfect  work,  then  shall  the  Lead  become  Gold, 
and  the  Gloom  be  turned  into  unutterable  Joy." 

These  words  had  often  fallen  from  his  father's  lips — as  Paul  looked 
upon  the  singular  statue,  half-revealed  by  his  light,  he  remembered  them 
with  painful  distinctness. 

It  was  a  figure  of  the  Saviour,  moulded  or  carved  in  lead,  the  form 
clad  in  the  humble  garments  of  toil,  and  the  face  stamped  with  a  look  of 
unutterable  sadness.  The  large  motionless  eyes,  the  lips  agitated  by  a 
smile  that  had  more  of  sorrow  than  joy  for  its  meaning,  the  great  fore- 
head, stamped  with  a  sublime  despair — all  mouldecl  of  lead — impressed 
the  heart  of  the  gazer  with  sensations  of  peculiar  awe. 

"That  Image,  Paul — "  the  old  man  was  wont  to  say — "Is  the  Image, 
not  of  the  Saviour  triumphant  over  death  and  evil,  but  of  Jesus  imprisoned 
among  the  creeds  and  sophistries  of  the  Church.    There  is  a  singular 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAIIIKON. 


189 


tradition  connected  with  the  statue,  my  son.  It  was  moulded  by  the  hand 
of  a  Hussite  heretic,  who,  imprisoned  by  the  followers  of  Papal  power, 
was  offered  life  and  liberty  on  one  condition.  '  You  are  an  artist,'  they 
said — '  Your  hand  is  cunning  in  the  arts  of  painting-  and  sculpture.  Carve 
for  us  an  Image  for  our  Altar,  and  you  shall  be  free  !'  The  heretic,  en- 
cumbered by  his  chains,  heard  them,  and  lifting  his  sunken  features  from 
the  shadows  of  his  cell,  faltered  a  response  to  their  request.  '  Of  what 
metal  will  you  have  it?'  '  Of  gold  !'  '  Whose  image  shall  I  carve?'  'The 
Blessed  Saviour  triumphant  over  death — '  '  Give  me  some  lead,  and  let 
me  have  a  furnace,  so  that  1  may  prepare  a  model  of  the  statue  which 
you  desire  !  They  consented.  For  weary  days  and  nights,  the  Hussite 
was  secluded  in  his  cell,  toiling  steadily  at  his  labor.  They  became  im- 
patient, but  he  replied,  pointing  to  the  statue,  imprisoned  in  its  mould, 
'Soon  it  will  be  done.'  One  morning  he  unclosed  the  door  of  his  cell. 
While  his  form,  wasted  by  persecution  and  toil,  trembled  like  a  leaf,  and 
his  cheek,  hollow  and  care-worn,  looked  like  the  cheek  of  a  corse,  he  led 
the  throng  of  priestly  Lords  across  the. threshold.  'You  asked  of  me  an 
Image  of  the  Saviour  triumphant  over  death.  I  could  not  mould  a  Lie 
into  gold,  for  I  felt  that  my  hour  was  near.  So  I  moulded  Him  of  lead, 
and  moulded  him,  not  as  he  appears  in  the  Bible,  but  as  he  is  in  your 
Church,  chained  by  your  hollow  forms  and  blasphemous  ritual.  Behold 
—  behold — the  Image  of  the  Imprisoned  Jesus  !'  He  said  this,  Paul,  and 
while  the  Priests  encircled  him  in  fiery  anger,  he  fell  back  cold  and  dead. 
That  Image  was  hurled  into  some  forgotten  corner,  for  the  Priests  felt  that 
its  divine  despair  was  an  eternal  rebuke  upon  their  heathenish  worship. 
But 'the  followers  of  Huss  lifted  it  from  the  dark  corner,  they  bore  it  to 

their  secret  place  of  worship,  and  now  it  is  here,  in  the  home  of  Wis- 

sahikon,  a  stern  Image  of  the  Church,  which  imprisons  the  Soul  of  the 
Blessed  Saviour  in  a  leaden  aud  lifeless  ritual.  The  day  comes,  my 
son,  when  the  Lead  will  become  Gold,  and  the  unchanged  gloom  be  turned 
into  changeless  joy;  when  the  Lord,  no  longer  imprisoned  by  creeds,  shall 
walk  freely  once  more,  into  the  homes  and  hearts  of  Men  !" 

Such  was  the  singular  tradition  of  the  Imprisoned  Jesus. 

— It  may  have  been  that  the  dull  hue  of  the  lead  deepened  the  singu- 
lar impression  which  the  Image  produced  ;  but  as  Paul  held  the  light  near 
and  nearer  to  it,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  did  not  merely  behold  a  face 
and  form  of  lifeless  metal. 

**'  I  cannot  banish  the  thought  that  a  Soul  is  imprisoned  in  that  leaden 
mass.  A  Soul  enclosed/in  the  fixed  eyes  and  despair-stricken  forehead 
of  the  Image — a  Soul  that  listens  to  me  now — watches  me  as  I  stand  be- 
side my  father's  couch — reads  my  heart — and  reads  the  Future  of  my 
life,  which  is  dark  and  terrible  to  me  !" 

Paul  shrunk  back  from  the  cold  leaden  eyes  of  the  Image.  "I  will 
press  my  lips  to  my  father's  forehead,  and  then  retire  to  my  bed !' 


9 


190  .  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

There  was  something  altogether  impressive  in  the  sight — that  young  face 
marked  by  the  traces  of  powerful  emotion,  pressed  against  the  withered 
countenance  of  the  old  man. 

As  Paul  bent  down,  the  light  which  he  held  glowed  more  warmly  over 
the  leaden  Image,  and  by  the  uncertain  ray,  the  smile  which  dwelt  upon 
the  sad  face  of  the  Imprisoned  Redeemer,  seemed  to  change  into  a  sneer. 

"  Good  night — God's  peace  upon  your  gray  hairs  !"  murmured  Paul, 
but  his  Father  did  not  hear  him.  He  slept  the  calm  slumber  of  a  serene 
Conscience. 

Paul  raised  his  head,  and  for  the  first  time,  as  the  rays  of  his  lamp 
wandered  from  the  face  to  the  form  of  the  Image,  he  beheld  the  extended 
hand,  and  felt  all  his  serenity  of  soul  vanish  before  a  sudden  tempest  of 
temptation  and  thought. 

For  on  the  forefinger  of  that  leaden  hand  an  iron  key  was  suspended, 
bearing  a  label  on  which  these  words  were  written,  and  written  in  his 
father's  hand — 

"  THE  KEY  OF  THE  SEALED  CHAMBER." 

"  Can  it  be,"  gasped  Paul,  ''that  my  father  means  to  tempt  me  ?  Fa- 
ther— "  he  extended  his  hand  as  if  to  rouse  the  aged  man,  but  as  sud- 
denly withdrew  it — 4  No  !  he  has  left  the  key  suspended  to  the  hand  of 
the  Image,  so  that  I  might  become  accustomed  to  it,  and  forget  all  temp- 
tation in  the  force  of  mechanical  habit. — It  is  a  massive  key,  and  the 
label  which  it  bears  has  been  written  not  many  hours  ago — " 

He  touched  the  key,  and  felt  his  hand  drop  to  his  side,  as  though  de- 
tected in  an  act  of  guilt.  The  face  of  the  Image  seemed  to  smile  upon 
him,  in  deep  compassion. 

Paul  extended  the  light,  and  regarded  the  key  with  a  fixed  glance,  while 
the  Image  looked  upon  him  with  that  sad  smile,  and  the  aged  man  slum- 
bered unconsciously  beneath  his  gaze. 

His  face  manifested  an  intensity  of  mental  agony  ;  there  was  no  hue 
of  life  upon  his  cheek;  while  his  lips  were  firmly  compressed,  his  large 
dark  eyes  glared  fixedly  upon  the  leaden  hand  and  the  iron  key. 

It  was  a  moment  of  fearful  thought. 

Paul  started  at  a  sudden  sound — but  in  an  instant  became  calm  again — 
it  was  only  the  old  clock  striking  the  hour  of  four. 

"  Father,  the  trial  is  terrible — "  faltered  Paul.  "This  ordeal  fills  my 
brain  with  madness.  Ah,  there  is  a  hope — I  may  for  ever  place  a  barrier 
between  my  soul  and  this  horrible  Temptation;—" 

With  a  sudden  grasp  he  seized  the  key,  and  casting  one  glance  toward  the 
slumbering  face  of  his  father,  he  strode  madly  to  the  door.  On  the  thresh- 
old he  paused,  held  the  light  toward  the  bed,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder. 
That  light  gleamed  faintly  over  his  father's  face,  but  as  its  ray  ^hone  for 
a  moment  over  the  image,  Paul  with  a  shudder  saw  the  leaden  features 
move,  and  the  fixed  eyeballs  glow  with  red  lustre. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


191 


He  dared  not  look  again,  but  holding  the  light  in  his  left  hand,  and 
clutching  the  key  in  his  right,  he  closed  the  door  of  his  father's  room. 
He  hastened  with  unsteady  steps  along  the  corridor  in  the  direction  of  his 
own  chamber. 

"The  key  shall  tempt  me  no  longer — "  he  said  as  he  hurried  along — 
"In  a  moment,  through  the  window  of  my  room  I  will  hurl  it  forth  into 
the  darkness  and  snow  !" 

He  stood  before  his  chamber,  but  the  same  ray  that  disclosed  the  panels 
of  his  door,  also  shone  upon  the  Cross  of  the  opposite  door — the  door 
which  led  into  the  Sealed  Chamber. 

Paul  rushed  madly  toward  it,  as  though  all  power  of  self-control  had 
suddenly  passed  from  his  brain.  While  his  face  was  marked  with  the 
traces  of  that  frenzy  which  boiled  like  molten  fire  in  every  vein,  he  ex- 
tended his  hand,  and  attempted  to  insert  the  key  in  the  lock.  His  hand 
trembled,  and  the  attempt  was  vain. 

Paul  sank  on  his  knees.  For  a  moment  all  was  a  blank ;  his  senses 
were  deadened  by  a  sudden  stupor- 

When  reason  and  consciousness  returned,  he  found  himself  still  on  his 
knees,  the  key  clutched  in  his  cramped  fingers,  while  the  cold  damps 
moistened  his  forehead. 

"Ah,  the  fearful  trial  is  passed.    I  am  saved." 

Slowly  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  was  turning  his  face  away  from  the 
Cross  on  the  door,  when  a  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder. 

It  was  not  the  firm  clasp  of  a  vigorous  hand,  but  its  pressure  was  soft 
and  gentle.  And  yet  that  scarcely  perceptible  pressure  held  Paul  as  mo- 
tionless as  stone.  He  could  not  turn  and  look  upon  the  person  whose 
hand  touched  his  shoulder,  but,  conscious  of  the  terrible  danger  which  he 
had  just  escaped,  he  feared  to  gaze  into  the  face  of  a  human  being.  The 
blush  of  shame  glowed  on  his  cheek. 

"It  is  my  father!"  the  thought  crossed  the  mind  of  the  Enthusiast — 
"He  has  watched  me,  and  seen  me  place  the  key  in  the  lock — " 

He  was  afraid  of  the  old  man's  wrinkled  face  and  deep  blue  eyes. 

The  hand  was  still  upon  his  shoulder,  its  soft  pressure  imparting  a  sin- 
gular warmth  to  his  frame. 

"Father—"  Paul  began. 

"Paul!"  answered  a  voice,  that  broke  in  deep  emphasis  upon  the  still- 
ness of  the  corridor. 

And  the  hand  which  had  pressed  his  shoulder,  touched  his  neck  with 
its  fingers.  Paul  felt  the  bload  burn  in  every  vein,  as  he  turned,  and,  hold- 
ing the  light  in  his  quivering  hand,  gazed  upon  the  intruder. 

Did  the  pale  face  and  high  forehead  of  the  old  man  meet  his  gaze?  Or 
the  soft  eyes  and  golden  hair  of  Catherine  ? 

"Paul,  are  you  afraid  of  Fortune!  Afraid  to  cross  that  threshold  and 
stand  face" to  face  with  your  future  fate  !" 


1 


192  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

It  was  the  beautiful  faee  of  a  woman,  the  large  dark  eyes  of  passionate 
love,  that  met  the  gaze  of  Paul,  as  he  heard  the  voice,  whose  every  accent 
fired  his  blood. 

"Ah — madness  again — "  and  Paul  retreated  from  the  vision  of  impe- 
tuous loveliness  which  glowed  upon  him  from  the  gloom  of  the  corridor. 
»  The  Wizard's  child  !'5 

She  was  there,  her  form  enveloped  in  a  robe  of  rich  velvet,  bordered 
by  glossy  fur.  Around  her  face,  gathered  the  dark  hood,  whose  folds 
gave  new  beauty  to  her  face  and  relieved  the  intense  blackness  of  her 
hair.  Her  eyes,  lighted  up  with  a  clear  unchanging  radiance,  flashed  upon 
him  from  the  shadow  of  their  long  fringes — her  velvet  robe  was  agitated 
by  the  motion  of  her  proud  bosom. 

This  vision  completed  the  bewilderment  of  the  Enthusiast. 
Has  earth  and  heaven  combined  against  me  ?  Is  it  not  enough  to  be 
tempted  by  my  own  heart  ?  Not  enough  to  feel  the  key  of  the  Sealed 
Chamber  in  my  grasp,  and  see  the  door  gloom  before  me,  its  Cross  burn- 
ing my  very  eyes  with  an  incredible  fascination  ?  Must  the  air  give  forth 
its  Spirits,  and  .the  image  which  haunts  my  brain  take  bodily  shape,  and 
come  in  incarnate  loveliness  to  my  side  !  Away — away — I  will  not  peril 
my  soul,  I  dare  not  break  my  Oath — I  cannot,  cannot  fling  a  lie  into  my 
father's  face  !" 

Deep  and  echoing,  his  voice  swelled  through  the  corridor.  The  warm 
lips  of  the  woman  parted  in  a  smile. 

"I  am  no  spirit,  Paul,"  she  said,  and  flung  back  her  hood.  Freely  and 
in  copious  waves,  her  raven  hair  descended  upon  her  shoulders.  While 
her  olive  cheek  was  fired  with  vermilion,  and  her  large  eyes  swam  in 
moisture,  and  the  ripe  redness  of  her  parting  lips  was  contrasted  with 
the  whiteness  of  her  teeth,  she  touched  his  arm  with  her  soft  hand,  and 
glided  nearer  to  his  side. 

"  Whence  come  you  ?"  cried  Paul. 

"Is  it  so  far  from  your  home  to  mine  ?  Only  a  mile,  by  the  path  that 
leads  over  the  Wissahikon,  and  through  the  woods.  — " 

"But  the  night  is  cold — the  ground  is  covered  with  snow — the  forest 
dark  and  dreary — " 

"  I  know  it,  Paul,  but  the  Voice  bade  me  seek  your  home — " 

"The  Voice?"  echoed  the  bewildered  Paul. 

"Do  you  not  remember  ?" — again  she  smiled,  and  dashed  aside  the  lux- 
uriant hair  from  her  face — "  It  was  the  voice  that  told  me  long  ago  of  you 
and  your  love.  And  after  you  left  me,  nofe  many  hour  ago,  after  you 
thrust  me  from  you  and— — " 

She  laid  her  finger  upon  the  slight  wound  which  marred  the  pale  beauty 
of  her  forehead. 

"After  all  this  had  occurred,  and  I  was  desolate  and  alone,  the  Voice 
spoke  again  and  told  me  that  you  loved  me  still,  told  me  that  you  would 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


193 


return,  yes,— it  told  me  that  together  we  should  climb  the  height  of  fame 
and  power." 

How  her  eyes  flashed  into  new  brightness,  as,  placing  her  hand  upon 
his  neck,  she  uttered  these  words ! 

Paul  was  spell-bound.  It  was  no  spirit  voice  that  spoke,  no  spirit  hand 
that  trembled  over  his  neck.  It  was  a  beautiful  woman,  whose  proud  love- 
liness glowed  into  voluptuous  life,  as  her  lips  murmured — "  We  should 
climb  the  height  of  fame  and  power!" 

"After  the  voice  had  spoken  these  words  of  hope  to  me,  I  slept.  In  my 
dreams  I  saw  your  face.  Again  I  heard  the  Voice—'  Would'st  thou  aid 
thy  lover  in  the  direst  moment  of  his  fate?  Away  to  the  home  of  Paul — 
away  by.  the  path  which  crosses  the  Wissahikon,  and  terminates  at  the 
door  of  the  Monastery.  The  door  is  open — thou  wilt  find  thy  lover 
trembling  on  the  threshold  of  his  Fortune.  Bid  him  enter  the  Sealed 
Chamber  and  fear  not.'    I  obeyed,  Paul— and  am  here." 

"The  Sealed  Chamber!"  echoed  Paul. 

"Do  you  fear?"  and  the  touch  of  her  hand,  trembling  over  his  fore- 
head, rilled  every  vein  of  the  Enthusiast  with  the  frenzy  of  passion.  "Do 
you  hesitate?  I  am  but  a  weak  woman — "  how  proudly  her  bosom 
heaved  as  she  said  the  words !  "  I  may  not  pierce  the  cloud  of  mystery 
which  encircles  us.  But  to  woman,  in  her  very  weakness,  God  hath  given 
a  power  akin  to  Prophecy — it  is  the  instinct  of  her  heart,  it  is  the  inspira- 
tion of  her  love.  That  power,  Paul,  tells  me  that  your  future — our  future, 
Paul — lies  within  the  Sealed  Chamber.  Do  you  love  me  ?  Enter,  and  do 
not  fear !" 

It  seemed  to  Paul  that  he  could  listen  for  ever  to  the  music  of  her  voice ; 
and  while  her  eyes  flashed  in  all  their  brightness,  and  her  form,  gliding 
closer  to  his  own,  heaved  and  swelled  in  every  vein ;  the  Enthusiast 
could  not  turn  his  gaze  away,  even  for  a  single  moment,  from  this  pic- 
ture of  voluptuous  beauty. 

"You  love  me!"  he  gasped — "You,  whose  glances  fill  my  soul  with 
new  life,  whose  form  seems  to  me  more  beautiful  than  a  dream  of  Heaven 
—you—" 

"  Love  you !"  exclaimed  the  Wizard's  daughter — "  Is  it  so  strange, 
when  I  have  seen  your  form,  in  my  dreams  by  night  and  dreams  by  day, 
for  more  than  a  year?  Do  you  still  hesitate?  The  key  of  your  Fate  is 
in  your  hand — " 

"  But  the  Oath  which  I  took,  not  one  hour  ago,  kneeling  on  this  very 
spot,  at  the  feet  of  my  father — " 

Upon  the  brow  of  the  beautiful  girl  darkened  a  slender  vein,  swelling 
with  a  serpentine  outline  from  the  transparent  skin. 

"Father!"  she  echoed,  her  face  so  near  the  visage  of  Paul,  that  he  felt 
her  breath  upon  his  cheek — "I  remember — " 

And  she  clasped  her  forehead  with  her  hands. 

13 


194  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

"  You  remember — " 

"  The  words  of  the  Voice,"  said  the  Wizard's  daughter:  "as  it  bade  me 
seek  your  home,  it  also  said — 'Tell  him,  tell  Paul,  that  the  man  who  calls 
himself  his  Father,  has  no  right  to  that  sacred  name — "' 

Paul  shrunk  back  from  her  side,  looking  into  her  glowing  face  with  a 
glance  of  vacant  terror. 
•   "  Who  calls  himself  my  father — " 

"'Tell  him  also,  that  the  mystery  of  his  life  is  concealed  within  the 
walls  of  the  Sealed  Chamber.  Once  beyond  its  threshold,  he  will  know 
his  father's  name — '  " 

Had  these  words  been  spoken  by  the  withered  lips  of  age,  the  glow  of 
anger  would  have  crimsoned  the  face  of  Paul,  the  fierce  denial  risen  to 
his  tongue. 

But  they  were  uttered  by  lips  that  were  ripe  with  youth  and  passion; 
and  as  they  fell  on  the  listener's  ears,  his  eye  was  enchained  by  a  face 
whose  eyes  flashed  with  love,  through  the  intervals  of  long  flowing  hair. 
As  he  heard  the  strange  revelation,  he  saw  the  tumultuous  motion  of  her 
velvet  robe,  he  felt  the  trembling  of  her  form,  as  she  pressed  nearer  to 
his  heart 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEENTH. 

PAUL  ALONE  WITH  THE  TEMPTER. 

"Lady,  I  would  speak  with  you  — "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  led  the  way 
into  his  own  room,  and  placed  the  light  upon  his  desk.  "  Let  me  have 
one  moment  of  calm  thought, — only  a  moment — "  and  his  gaze  was 
rivetted  to  the  key  of  the  Sealed  Chamber,  which  he  clenched  in  his 
right  hand. 

The  girl,  whose  eyes  shone  with  changeless  brightness,  sunk  into  a 
chair,  her  robe  quivering  with  the  impetuous  pulsations  of  her  bosom.  Not 
once  did  she  remove  her  gaze  from  the  pale  features  of  the  Enthusiast. 
There  were  some  moments  of  unbroken  stillness — Paul  was  alone  with 
the  Wizard's  daughter. 

Not  in  her  own  chamber,  as  some  few  hours  ago,  but  in  that  cell  of  the 
Block-house  which  had  for  years  been  the  home  of  his  thoughts.  Rest- 
ing his  brow  upon  his  hand,  he  could  only  gaze  in  her  face,  and  grow 
wild  and  bewildered  with  the  dazzling  beauty  of  her  eyes. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


195 


As  he  gazed,  his  mind  agitated  by  contending  memories.  All  that 
he  had  ever  read  of  woman,  came  crowding  on  his  brain,  in  a  throng  of 
contrasted  images.  She  seemed  to  him  like  some  form  of  which  he  had 
read;  like  the  fascinating  image  of  one  of  those  women,  whose  surpassing 
beauty  gives  freshness  and  bloom  to  their  memories,  even  after  their  love- 
liness has  crumbled  into  grave-yard  mould;  and  the  shadows  of  dead  ages 
brood  darkly  over  their  dust. 

Was  it  Ruth,  so  pure  and  beautiful,  who,  with  her  brown  cheek  lighted 
by  the  Judean  sun,  bent  toiling  amid  the  full  sheaves  of  the  rich  man's 
field?  Bathsheba,  whose  dazzling  loveliness  made  the  Poet-King  a 
Traitor  and  Murderer?  Or  the  star-eyed  daughter  of  Eg^t,  whose  gor- 
geous beauty  inspired  the  Son  of  David  with  that  glowing  Love-drama, 
called  the  Song  of  Solomon?  Or  the  Juliet  of  Shakspeare,  the  Eve  ot 
Milton,  or  some  creation  of  his  own  brain?  Did  she  resemble  the  volup- 
tuous form,  which,  gliding  one  summer  day  before  Herod  the  King,  so 
maddened  his  soul,  that  he  gave  her,  as  a  birth-day  gift,  the  head  of  the 
Baptist? 

The  impression  which  the  beauty  of  the  Wizard's  child  made  upon  the 
soul  of  Paul,  mingled  these  images  with  a  darker  association.  She  seemed 
to  him  something  like  the  tender  Esther,  the  daughter  of  Mordecai  the 
Jew,  with  a  shadow  of  Shakspeare's  Lady  Macbeth,  darkening  over  her 
white  brow. 

Yes,  even  as  Paul  felt  the  inspiration  of  her  eyes,  she  seemed  a  beau- 
tiful embodiment  of  some  fearful  deed,  the  splendid  shrine  of  a  Satanic 
Thought. 

"  You  hesitate — "  she  said,  raising  her  white  hand  and  sweeping  the 
luxuriant  hair  from  her  face. 

Paul  was  silent.  He  could  hear  the  monotonous  sound  of  the  old  clock 
— the  throbbing  of  his  heart — and  the  death-like  stillness  impressed  him 
with  an  omen  of  approaching  Evil. 

"  Hesitate,  when  there  is  greatness  to  be  achieved,  glory  won  by  a  solitary 
exertion  of  your  will!"  She  bent  forward,  until  the  light  shone  fully  upon 
her  face — her  eyes  grew  brighter,  her  lips  assumed  a  more  passionate  red. 

"Greatness — Glory?"  echoed  Paul,  in  an  absent  tone;  and  then  came 
a  murmured  thought — "  What  grandeur  of  earthly  power  is  worthy  for  a 
moment  to  be  placed  in  the  balance  with  the  possession  of  this  beautiful 
form?    What  glory  like  the  beauty  of  her  eyes — " 

"  Listen  to  me,  Paul.  My  life  has  been  like  your  own,  strange  and  dark 
with  mystery.  Yet  I  feel  that  our  fate  is  linked,  through  good  and  ill, 
for  life  or  death,  either  for  purposes  of  glory,  or  for  deeds  of  shame. 
Your  heart  confirms  my  words.  Our  destiny  is  one.  It  is  not  for  me  to 
explain  that  which  is  so  dark  with  mystery — I  can  only  speak  that  which 
I  feel—" 

"  Speak — you  would  have  me  break  my  Oath,  scatter  confusion  and 


196  .  PAUL  ARDENHEIM ;  OR, 

shame  upon  my  father's  gray  hairs,  and  taint  myself  with  the  guilt  of 
unpardonable  crime  —  " 

"No,  Paul.  I  would  have  you  as  great,  as  noble  as  your  destiny.  I 
know  not  the  world,  have  no  intelligence  of  its  people  or  its  passing  events, 
but  I  feel  that  the  time  comes,  when  a  strong  arm,  nerved  by  a  great  soul, 
may  grasp  a  crown,  even  from  the  hand  of  death,  and  carve  a  glorious  des- 
tiny, even  from  the  elements  of  carnage  and  ruin." 

"It  is  well  —  a  crown,  a  throne  !  But  the  hereafter — "  Paul  pronounced 
the  word  with  shuddering  distinctness. 

"The  hereafter?" — and  her  face  was  stamped  by  a  vague  wonder. 

"  The  Othe*  World,  that  unknown  sea,  whose  waves  break  in  indistinct 
murmurs  on  the  shores  of  this  life — "  Paul  wildly  exclaimed — "  The 
Hereafter!  0,  it  is  terrible  to  think,  even  for  a  moment,  that  we  are  but 
as  the  beasts  of  the  field.  That  to-day  we  live,  and  to-morrow  we  are  but 
loathsome  decay.  To  dream  for  an  instant,  that  there  is  no  other  world — " 

"The  Other  World!  It  is  a  mystery;  perchance  it  may  be  happiness, 
perchance  misery.  Or,  it  may  be  nothing  but  a  long  and  dreamless  sleep. 
It  is  in  this  world  that  we  live.  For  this  world  we  were  born.  I  know 
that  I  live ;  the  breath  of  the  flowers,  the  joy  of  the  sun,  the  thought  of 
moonlight — all  are  dear  to  me.  But  the  other  world  is  like  a  vague  mist, 
stretched  over  the  eastern  sky  at  early  dawn.  That  mist,  passing  away, 
may  reveal  the  rising  sun,  or  only  disclose  a  darker  cloud!"  . 

Paul  started  from  that  lovely  countenance  with  affright.  Her  words 
chilled  his  blood.  So  beautiful,  and  with  no  consciousness  of  a  Better 
World ! 

She  was  an  Atheist.  It  was  true.  With  all  her  beauty,  her  grace  of 
step,  and  magic  of  look  and  tone,  she  had  no  definite  conception  of  a 
future  state,  no  actual  belief  in  God.  True,  she  prayed,  but  it  was  rather 
a  form  of  the  lips  than  an  inspiration  from  the  heart.  Her  father,  led 
by  his  stern  fanaticism,  had  reared  her  thus,  and  the  end  of  all  his  teach- 
ings was  to  impress  her  only  with  the  joy  of  existence  in  this  world.  The 
Voice,  speaking  from  the  stillness  of  her  chamber,  completed  this  singular 
education.  All  that  was  Religious  in  her  nature,  bent  from  its  proper 
tendency,  became  distorted  into  an  insane  Love,  a  grasping  and  boundless 
Ambition. 

That  insane  Love,  that  unlimited  ambition,  were  centred  in  the  image 
of  Paul  of  Ardenheim.  She  looked  upon  him  as  the  embodied  form  of 
her  Thought.  He  was  her  Future,  her  Happiness,  her — if  we  may  speak 
it  thus — only  Hereafter. 

Paul  gazed  sadly  and  with  fixed  eyes  upon  her  glowing  face.  She 
was  near  him ;  her  voice  broke  like  music  over  the  silence  of  his  cell ; 
her  bosom  swelled  beneath  the  dark  robe,  and  her  tresses,  agitated  by  the 
wind  which  came  through  the  aperture  of  the  door,  waved  slowly  to 
and  fro. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


197 


"Thou  art  so  very  beautiful!"  he  said,  completely  intoxicated  by  the 
strange  brightness  of  her  eyes—"  Thy  face  so  fair  to  look  upon,  thy  voice 
like  the  delicious  music  of  a  daybreak  dream,  thine  eyes  shining  ever  with 
a  light  that  seems  to  me  like  the  brightness  of  a  heavenly  soul,  and  yet 
thou — even  thou — " 

Shrinking  from  her  gaze,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  Tiands.  He  had 
not  the  courage  to  complete  the.  sentence.  Even  this  beautiful  woman, 
with  the  voluptuous  form  and  starry  eyes,  the  voice  that  thrilled,  and  the 
lips  that  glowed  with  the  warmth  of  passion,  even  she  must  die !  This 
was  his  thought,  but  he  could  not  speak  it. 

Absorbed  in  his  reverie,  Paul  murmured  to  himself — "  The  white  bosom 
to  the  charnel,  the  grave  worm  upon  the  radiant  brow !  The  voice  that 
thrills  will  be  silent  !  There  will  be  no  light  in  the  face,  for  that  face  will 
be  a  skull,  those  eyes  but  hollow  orbits,  vacant — dark — sealed  forever." 

There  was  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  Paul  heard  her  voice  again. 
Heard  it  in  every  low  whispering  accent,  but  could  not  raise  his  eyes. 

"  'And  thou  must  die!'  This  is  your  thought — "  her  voice  grew  tremu- 
lous, nay,  Paul  felt  the  hand  tremble,  as  it  touched  his  shoulder — "  It  is 
true,  I  must  die.  But — "  and  her  voice  grew  firm  and  strong  again, 
breaking  in  distinct  emphasis  on  the  listener's  ear — "  But  not  until  my 
Destiny  is  accomplished — not  until  our  Fate  is  fulfilled!" 

How  the  triumph  of  her  voice  pierced  the  listener's  ear,  and.  made  the 
blood  dance  in  his  veins ! 

"  Life  is  before  us,  Paul,  a  goblet  filled  to  the  brim  with  love,  with 
power.  Shall  we  refuse  to  drink  it,  Paul,  ay,  to  the  last  drop,  because 
the  goblet  is  held  by  a  skeleton  hand,  or  dash  it  down,  untasted,  because, 
as  we  raise  it  to  our  lips,  Death  stands  mocking  as  he  gives  the  cup?" 

Radiant  with  beauty,  she  glowed  before  him,  her  eyes  full  of  light,  her 
olive  cheek  glowing  with  fresh  bloom. 

"  Come,  Paul.  Do  not  falter  now.  To  your  task.  The  oath — the 
injunction  of  the  aged  man — these  are  but  a  part  of  the  ordeal,  which 
decides  your  fate  and  mine.    Arise  and  seek  your  Destiny!" 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  yes,  upon  the  key  clenched  in  his 
right  hand. 

"  I  am  lost — I  tremble — there  are  Phantom  forms  before  my  eyes,  and 
strange  music,  like  a  chorus  of  angel's  songs  and  the  laughter  of  fiends, 
rings  without  ceasing  in  my  ears  — " 

"Do  you  falter?  Up,  and  know  your  fate.  It  is  the  hour,  Paul,  when, 
from  the  Past  and  the  Future,  the  shadows  will  roll  aside,  as  a  mist 
from  the  dawning  day.  Pass  the  threshold — know  the  mystery  of  the 
Sealed  Chamber,  and — Paul — canst  thou  not  read  my  thought  ere  it  is 
spoken — 

"  Speak!"  Starting  from  his  seat,  Paul  endeavored  to  read  her  meaning 
in  her  eyes — 


198  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

"This  room  shall  be  our  Bridal  Chamber,"  whispered  the  Wizard's 
daughter. 

"And  the  hour  of  our  Bridal — "  Paul  advanced  a  single  step. 

— "  When  you  have  passed  the  Ordeal.  I  will  await  you  at  the  thresh- 
old of  the  Sealed  Chamber — " 

"  Our  Bridal*"  echoed  Paul,  and  grasping  the  light,  he  hurried  from  his 
room,  and  in  an  instant  stood  in  the  corridor  again 


CHAPTER  NINETEENTH. 

THE  THRESHOLD  OF  THE  SEALED  CHAMBER. 

It  was  not  the  moment  for  calm  thought,  for  every  vein  swelled  with 
new  life,  and  the  heart  within  him  throbbed  with  such  violence,  that  even 
in  the  cold  corridor,  he  panted  for  breath,  for  air. 

"  I  will  dare  the  worst,  for  you — "  his  voice  was  indistinct,  hoarse 
.with  emotion. 

With  a  trembling  hand  he  placed  the  key  in  the  lock.  The  Wizard's 
daughter  regarded  his  ghost-like  face  with  a  look  of  glowing  triumph. 

"  Enter,"  she  softly  whispered — "  Enter  and  learn  the  Past  and  the 
Future !" 

Paul  turned  the  key — the  door  began  to  recede — the  heavy  air  which 
passed  through  the  crevice,  almost  extinguished  the  light.  That  air 
seemed  tainted  with  the  odor  of  the  dead;  it  resembled  a  blast  from  the 
unclosed  jaws  of  a  charnel. 

The  Wizard's  daughter  regarded  him  with  an  expanded  eye,  and  love 
and  curiosity  mingled  in  the  expression  of  her  beautiful  face. 

"Do  you  falter  now?"  she  said. 

There  was  a  soft  footstep,  and  a  gentle  hand  raised  the  hand  of  the 
woman  from  the  neck  of  Paul.  Between  them  glided  a  young  girl,  who 
gathered  a  dark  mantle  around  her  white  dress,  and  with  her  loosened 
hair  resting  in  a  golden  shower  upon  her  shoulders,  and  her  clear  blue 
eyes  distended  by  a  look  of  vague  alarm,  she  gazed  now  in  the  face  of  the 
voluptuous  woman,  now  in  the  ashen  visage  of  Paul. 

"Catherine!"  and  he  turned  away  from  the  innocence  and  angel-like 
purity  of  his  sister's  face. 

"Paul,"  exclaimed  the  pure  girl,  in  tones  whose  calm  serenity  by  no 
means  resembled  the  impetuous  accents  of  the  dark-haired  woman — "You 
stand  on  the  threshold  of  the  Sealed  Chamber — " 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


199 


There  was  a  sad  reproof  in  her  gentle  eyes. 

"  The  Sealed  Chamber — what  know  you  of  its  mystery?" 

"  Do  you  frown  upon  me,  Paul  ?  Are  you  angry  with  your  sister?  An 
hour  ago,  aroused  from  my  sleep  by  the  sound  of  father's  voice,  I  saw 
you  kneeling  at  his  feet,  I  heard  your  vow. — O,  Paul,  you  do  not  dream 
of  breaking  that  vow — " 

More  darkly  swelled  the  serpentine  vein  upon  the  forehead  of  the 
Wizard's  daughter,  as  she  beheld  the  pure  face  of  Catherine,  fired  with  a 
holy  emotion,  as  she  clung  to  her  Brother's  neck. 

"  He  is  not  your  father,"  she  cried — "  He  has  in  reserve  for  you  a 
Future  darker  even  than  the  Past — " 

The  mild  face  of  Catherine  was  turned  toward  the  beautiful  woman ; 
her  blue  eyes  shone  with  wonder  and  alarm.  She  shrunk  trembling  from 
the  light  of  her  flashing  eyes. 

"  This  scene  fills  me  with  terror,  Paul — "  whispered  the  sister,  clasping 
her  brother's  wrist — "Can  it  be?  You  stand  on  the  threshold  of  the 
Sealed  Chamber,  about  to  violate  your  oath !" 

"  Catherine— Catherine — "groaned  Paul,  as  the  hand  which  grasped 
the  key  fell  nerveless  by  his  side.  "  I  am  terribly  tempted — my  will  is 
not  my  own — " 

He  turned  wildly  from  that  face,  whose  blue  eyes,  fair  skin,  and  golden 
hair,  symbolized  a  pure  and  child-like  soul,  to  the  dark  cheek,  flashing 
eyes,  and  jet-black  hair,  which  embodied  the  idea  of  a  proud  and  voluptu- 
ous spirit. 

It  was  the  eventful  moment  of  his  Fate;  the  calm  love  which  came  like 
Peace  from  God,  as  he  looked  upon  his  sister's  face,  contended  with  the 
frenzy  of  passion  which  fired  every  vein,  as  his  glance  encountered  the 
gaze  of  the  dark-haired  woman. 

"  Come,  Paul — to  your  own  room — it  is  an  Evil  Angel  that  stands  so 
beautiful  by  your  side." 

Paul  surrendered  his  hand  to  the  grasp  of  his  sister,  and  turned  his  face 
away  from  the  door. 

The  eyes  of  the  Wizard's  daughter  glared  with  a  brightness  that  was 
almost  preternatural.  With  one  proud  step  she  advanced,  her  flashing 
eyes  and  wildly  floating  hair,  making  her  look  like  the  spirit  of  some 
feverish  dream ;  she  grasped  his  wrist,  and  pointed  to  the  door,  while  the 
dark  vein  swelled  more  distinctly  from  her  fair  forehead. 

"You  are  afraid!"  she  sneered,  pressing  her  nether-lip  beneath  her 
white  teeth,  until  the  blood  started—"  The  door  is  open,  the  threshold  free, 
and  you  are  afraid  to  stand  face  to  face  with  your  Destiny!  O,  shame 
upon  me,  that  I  ever  sank  so  low,  even  in  my  thoughts,  as  to  bestow  my 
love  upon  a  coward  heart  like  thine!" 

"  Your  hand  from  my  neck,  sister,"  shrieked  Paul,  maddened  by  the 
look  of  the  proud  maiden — "  There  is  no  time  for  thought.  I  must  go  on — " 


200 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


Grasping  the  light,  which  showed  his  convulsed  countenance  in  every 
lineament,  he  dashed  over  the  threshold  of  the  Sealed  Chamber. 

The  door  closed  behind  him,  and  all  was  darkness  in  the  corridor. 

"Father!"  shrieked  Catherine,  but  there  was  a  firm  hand  upon  her 
mouth,  a  frenzied  arm  around  her  neck. 

"  Be  still,  Catherine — "  said  the  fierce  though  tremulous  voice  of  the 
strange  woman.  "It  is  the  dread  moment  of  your  brother's  fate;  be  silent 
therefore,  or — " 

Catherine  struggled  but  feebly,  as  that  arm  wound  closer  about  her  neck, 
while  the  firm  hand  rested  upon  her  lips. 

"  Or,  if  you  must  speak,  let  every  word  take  the  form  of  a  prayer. 
Kneel  and  beseech  the  Angels  to  guide  your  Brother  in  his  lone  commu- 
nion with  his  fate  !" 

All  was  thick  night  in  the  corridor.  Catherine  could  not  see  the  burn- 
ing eyes  of  the  strange  woman,  but  she  felt  her  writhing  heart,  as  the  arm 
gathered  her  in  a  stifling  embrace,  and  trembled  as  the  fevered  breath 
fanned  her  cheek. 

"  I  will  be  silent,"  faltered  the  Sister — "  I  will  kneel  here  in  the  dark- 
ness and  pray  for  my  lost  Brother!" 

The  strange  woman's  arm  no  longer  entwined  her  neck.  ^ 

Catherine  sank  on  her  knees,  and  folding  her  arms,  looked  up  to 
heaven.  Even  through  the  gloom  and  darkness,  her  pure  soul  reached 
©ut  its  arms  to  God. 

What  pen  is  there  to  picture  the  horror  of  that  moment  to  the  Wizard's 
daughter. 

While  her  bosom  bounded  beneath  her  clasped  hands,  she  muttered  in 
a  half-coherent  tone,  her  doubts  and  hopes  mingling  in  strange  confusion: 

"  He  will  come  forth,  with  joy  on  his  noble  forehead  *  *  *  *  Have  I 
advised  him  to  his  ruin  and  shame  *  *  *  *  Together  we  will  mount  the 
steep  pathway  of  ambition ;  he  will  be  noble,  and  I  shall  be  his  bride, 
his  *  *  *  *  A  terrible  doubt — should  the  voice  deceive  *  *  *  *  All  is  still 
— I  hear  no  sound  *  *  *  a  cry — silence — a  groan  *  *  #  Paul!  Paul! 
*  *  *  No  answer  !  Ah,  tnis  will  kill  me — I  can  endure  it  no  longer. 
Better  die  a  thousand  deaths  than  be  tortured  by  suspense  so  hor- 
rible !" 

And  while  the  voluptuous  girl  murmured  her  hopes  and  fears,  in  accents 
tremulous  and  broken,  the  pure  Sister  kneeling  at  her  feet,  prayed  to 
Heaven  in  a  calm  voice. 

The  voice  of  the  old  clock  rolled  through  the  Block-house,  and  "Five!" 
pealed  from  the  bell. 

There  was  no  sound  within  the  Sealed  Chamber;  Catherine  ceased 
to  pray,  and  bent  her  head  against  its  panels,  but  could  not  hear  the 
slightest  echo. 

The  proud  girl  too,  sweeping  her  hair  aside  from  her  face,  listened  in 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


203 


voiceless  agony,  listened  for  the  accent  of  her  lover's  voice,  tor  the  echo 
of  his  step.    All  was  still. 

"Paul!"  cried  the  gentle  voice  of  Catherine. 

u  Paul !"  spoke  the  trembling  accent  of  the  Wizard's  daughter. 

No  answer !  Within  the  Sealed  Chamber  silence  and  mystery — in  the 
eorridor  darkness  and  suspense — it  was  an  hour  of  unutterable  anguish. 

At  last  there  was  a  sound — Catherine  uttered  a  prayer,  and  the  dark- 
haired  woman  an  exclamation  of  joy. 

It  was  a  groan  of  agony,  and  yet  they  were  glad  to  hear  it.  Glad  to 
know  that  he  lived  ! 

"A  footstep — he  comes — "  cried  the  Wizard's  daughter. 

It  was  a  footstep,  but  unsteady  and  irregular  as  that  of  a  man  who, 
bewildered  by  wine,  reels  from  the  hot  air  of  the  revel,  into  the  cool,  fresh 
atmosphere  of  dawn. 

The  door  unclosed,  and  Paul  Ardenheim  appeared  on  the  threshold.  In 
one  hand  the  light,  in  the  oftier  the  key. 

Catherine  sank  on  the  floor  with  a  cry  of  horror.  Even  the  woman 
with  dark  hair  and  proudly  voluptuous  bosom,  staggered  backward,  and 
leaned  for  support  against  the  opposite  wall  of  the  corridor.  She  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands,  while  the  insensible  form  of  Catherine  lay  at  her 
feet. 

The  face  of  Paul  Ardenheim  thrilled  the  Wizard's  daughter  with  a  feel- 
ing of  horror,  beyond  all  power  of  language  to  define  or  analyze. 

She  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock,  but  could  not  raise  her  face  from 
her  hands.  He  was  passing  near  her — his  wild  unsteady  step  awoke  the 
echoes— yet,  winding  the  hair  about  her  face,  she  shrunk  closer  to  the  wall, 
afraid  of  his  touch. 

He  was  gone — she  heard  the  echo  of  his  footstep  far  down  the  corridor 
— shuddering  she  turned  her  face  over  her  shoulder.  She  saw  him  as  he 
hurried  along ;  his  back  was  toward  her ;  the  light  shone  over  his  long 
dark  hair,  but  did  not  reveal  his  face. 

He  was  near  the  end  of  the  corridor — she  saw  the  light  shining  upon 
the  face  of  the  old  clock,  when  the  sound  of  an  opening  door  was  heard, 
and  a  white-haired  man  came  forth  and  stood  in  the  path  of  Paul  Arden- 
heim. 

"  Back,  old  man !"  The  Wizard's  daughter  heard  the  voice,  saw  the  ex- 
tended arm,  and  all  was  darkness.  The  light  had  been  hurled  to  the  floor. 

By  its  last  gleam,  she  beheld  the  old  man's  white  hairs  waving  round 
his  forehead,  as  he  tottered  backward,  while  his  face  glowed  redly  for  a 
moment,  and  then  with  a  dull  sound  he  fell. 


202  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


CHAPTER  TWENTIETH. 

THE,  CORSE  OF  MADELINE. 

"Very  beautiful !"  said  the  Wizard — "  Even  in  the  last  moment,  when 
the  soul  hangs  fluttering  on  the  motionless  lips  !" 

His  voice,  deepened  by  enthusiasm,  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  subter- 
ranean vault. 

The  pale  spiritual  light,  shining  from  the  aperture  in  the  top  of  the  altar, 
bathed  his  face  in  its  rays,  while  all  around  was  shadowy,  and  the  farther 
corners  of  the  cell  were  wrapt  in  thick  darkness. 

In  that  light,  his  features  were  marked  and  impressive.  His  form  bending 
with  age  and  care,  made  his  face  appear  as  though  it  rested  in  the  centre 
of  his  shrunken  chest.  Covered  with  wrinkles,  the  lines  deeply  traced, 
and  the  high  forehead  surmounted  by  a  black  skull-cap,  from  which  the 
hair  escaped  in  straight  flakes  of  silvery  whiteness,  the  face  of  Isaac  Van 
Behme  bore  the  stamp  of  a  fanaticism,  that  was  to  terminate  only  with 
his  existence.  The  eyes — in  color  now  blue,  now  deepening  into  gray — 
were  expanded  beneath  the  white  brow,  with  a  wild,  unearthly  stare. 
Around  his  thin  lips  trembled  a  smile  of  inexpressible  joy. 

Clad  in  a  loosely  flowing  gown,  with  his  pale  hands,  with  long  attenuated 
fingers,  clasped  upon  his  breast,  the  old  man  stood  near  the  altar;  and  as 
the  light  imparted  a  rosy  flush,  his  face  appeared  ten  years  younger;  but 
when  it  cast  a  glare  of  faint  azure,  he  looked  like  a  phantom,  a  Demon 
summoned  to  his  task  of  evil, — like  any  thing  but  a  living  man. 

His  eyes,  dilating  with  rapture,  were  downcast — 

"  It  was  a  brave  thought,  right  brave,  by  my  soul !"  he  murmured,  with 
a  burst  of  shrill  laughter—"  To  use  the  horse  of  friend  Dorfner,  and  place 
her  form  upon  it,  and  thus  convey  her  to  my  home  !  The  horse  I  turned 
down  the  path  by  the  stream — Dorfner  will  wonder  much  when  he  seeks 
his  horse  to-morrow! — Wherefore  did  the  Huntsman  strike  that  blow  and 
pierce  her  naked  breast?  Jealousy,  I  ween — 'Twas  a  good  star  that  led 
me  to  her  side,  just  as  the  hunter  struck  the  blow  and  fled,  with  the  bloody 
knife  in  his  hand— a  most  propitious  star  !  But  I  must  not  delay— look! 
How  the  soul  flutters  as  it  is  about  to  take  its  flight !" 

Near  the  altar  a  rough  pine  board  was  placed,  supported  by  two  rudely 
constructed  tressels. 

On  this  board  was  laid  the  form  of  a  naked  woman,  whose  outlines 
were  distinctly  defined,  amid  the  shadows  of  the  vault.  The  light  shone 
mildly  over  the  image  of  sinless  purity,  revealing  the  hands  stretched  by 
the  side,  the  limbs  disposed  in  the  serene  attitude  of  the  grave,  the  face 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


203 


wearing  a  calm  smile,  the  eyelids  closed,  and  the  colorless  cheeks  relieved 
by  soft  brown  hair,  which  descended  over  the  neck  and  shoulders.  A 
single  lock  strayed  over  the  edge  of  the  board  and  dangled  on  the  floor. 

It  was  like  a  form  of  pure  white  marble,  warming  into  heavenly  life, 
under  the  chisel  of  some  inspired  sculptor — so  fair,  so  pale,  so  beautiful ! 

The  face  was  pale,  but  a  single  spot  of  intense  red  burned  in  the  centre 
of  each  cheek,  like  a  rose-bud  peeping  from  the  snow. 

Beneath  the  bosom  was  a  hideous  stain  of  crimson-r-it  was  blood  flow- 
ing from  a  fatal  wound,  and  spreading  imperceptibly  over  the  rough  board 
on  which  the  unconscious  form  was  laid. 

Poor  Madeline ! 

There  may  have  been  no  mercy  in  the  eye  of  your  Seducer,  when  he 
gloated  upon  your  half-revealed  breast,  but  the  cold  eye  that  now  gazes 
upon  your  uncovered  form — is  there  any  thing  of  pity  in  that  fixed  and 
icy  glare  ? 

Her  nether-lip  moves  gently,  almost  imperceptibly,  and  a  slight  pulsa- 
tion stirs  the  bleeding  breast. 

"  She  lives  !  The  great  Secret  is  within  my  grasp — 4  one  drop  of  blood, 
warm  from  the  heart  of  a  tempted  but  sinless  maiden,'  will  reward  me  for 
these  gray  hairs — for  the  toil  of  twenty-one  years, — and  ripen  the  liquid, 
now  simmering  within  the  altar,  into  the  Elixir  of  Immortal  Life.  It  is  a 
glorious  thought !  Blessed  be  the  Star  that  shines  upon  me  at  this  still 
hour!" 

Isaac  examined  the  wound,  which  covered  the  lower  part  of  Madeline's 
breast  with  blood ;  his  face  became  rigid  in  every  outline  as  he  pursued 
his  painful  scrutiny. 

"  The  wound  is  not  fatal!"  he  said,  with  an  accent  of  profound  regret — 
"  The  knife  glanced  aside.  The  hand  that  struck  the  blow  was  tremulous 
— with  a  little  care,  the  maiden  might  recover,  and  go  forth  in  youth  and 
loveliness  again." 

Isaac  was  silent.  His  brow  became  corrugated,  his  mouth  distorted 
by  an  almost  grotesque  grimace.  He  was  occupied  with  dark  and  dan- 
gerous thoughts.  "  Shall  I  falter  now  ?  When  my  footstep  is  on  the 
threshold  of  Eden,  and  the  fruit  of  Immortal  Life  within  my  grasp?  And 
yet  *  *  *  a  Murder  *  *  *  the  world  would  cover  my  gray  hairs  with 
scorn,  the  law  consign  me  to  the  gibbet  *  *  *  not  a  child  but  would 
curse  my  name.  Yet,  with  the  sacrifice  of  this  one  life,  I  may  give  life, 
knowledge  to  thousands,  and  raise  mankind  to  godlike  power.  Only  a 
life, — a  single  life — now  fluttering  on  these  lips — only  this,  between  me 
and  Eternal  Youth!" 

More  dark  and  singular  grew  the  expression  of  Isaac's  face.  His  down- 
drawn  brows  almost  concealed  the  cold,  icy  glare  of  his  eyes ;  his  mouth 
worked  convulsively. 

He  glanced  over  the  unconscious  form,  and  saw  the  bosom  swelling 


204 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


with  the  first  warm  throb  of  returning  life,  while  the  rose-bud  on  the  cheek 
began  to  spread  into  perfect  bloom. 

"I  will  get  my  scalpel,"  said  Isaac— "  It  is  in  the  Tower.  There  is 
no  time  to  be  lost !" 

Not  once  did  he  pause  to  contemplate  the  actual  dangers  of  his  position. 
Might  not  the  body  of  Madeline  be  traced  to  his  home,  and  the  guilt  of 
Murder  be  laid  upon  his  gray  hairs  ?  This  might  occur  before  an  another 
hour,  but  the  old  man  did  not  for  a  moment  pause  to  think  of  it. 

"  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost !"  he  said,  and  while  the  bosom  throbbed 
slowly,  and  the  rose-bud  bloomed  into  a  ripe  flower,  he  hurried  along  the 
floor  and  from  the  cell. 

Five  minutes  elapsed  ere  the  sound  of  his  returning  step  aroused  the 
echoes  of  the  vault. 

"  The  day  is  breaking,  the  day  whose  setting  sun  shall  shine  upon  the 
brow  of  an  immortal  being!"  Thus  muttering,  the  old  man  came  from  the 
gloom  toward  the  altar,  whose  light — suddenly  changed  from  soft  red  to 
faint  azure — invested  his  agitated  face  with  an  unearthly  glare. 

"  Too  much  time  has  been  lost  already  it  is  but  the  sacrifice  of  a 

life,  and—" 

Brandishing  a  scalpel  or  dissecting-knife  in  his  upraised  hand,  he  stood 
in  the  pale  blue  light  again,  beside  the  altar  in  which  the  fire  burned ;  the 
sacred  fire,  that,  in  the  long  watch  of  a  lifetime,  had  never  once  gone 
out,  or  even  been  dimmed  by  the  loss  of  one  pure  ray. 

The  cry  of  anguish  which  came  from  Isaac  lips  would  have  pierced  a 
heart  of  stone. 

There  was  the  rough  board,  stained  with  a  small  pool  of  blood,  but  the 
body  of  Madeline  was  gone. 

The  Wizard's  uplifted  arm  fell  by  his  side ;  his  face  betrayed  the  death- 
like stupor  which  palsied  his  reason,  and  crushed  his  stern  fanaticism 
into  a  dull  apathy. 

He  pressed  his  hands  upon  the  board,  and  stained  his  fingers  in  the 
blood — 

"  It  is  a  delusion.  The  body  is  here,  but  mine  eyesight  is  dim.  No 
footstep  but  mine  and  that  of  David  the  Idiot  has  ever  crossed  the  thresh- 
old of  this  vault — it  cannot,  cannot  have  been  taken  away  by  human 
hands !" 

With  mad  shrieks,  gestures  as  frantic,  the  old  man  ran  to  and  fro, 
now  lost  to  sight  in  the  dark  corners  of  the  place,  now  tearing  his  thin 
locks,  while  the  light  disclosed  his  horror-stricken  features.  In  vain  were 
all  his  frantic  cries,  in  vain  his  earnest  search — the  body  of  the  wounded 
girl  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

How  had  she  disappeared  ?  Whose  hands  had  borne  her  form  from  the 
vault  ? 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  205 

Isaac  hurried  from  the  place,  while  the  dark  passages  echoed  his  frantic 
cries.  It  was  the  work  of  a  moment  to  ascend  the  stairway  and  attain 
the  ground-floor  of  the  mansion.  The  lantern  shone  dimly  from  the  cor- 
ridor at  the  head  of  the  main  stairway.  Without  an  instant's  delay,  Isaac 
hastened  up  the  stairway,  and  reached  the  door  of  his  daughter's  room. 
He  listened  for  a  moment,  pushed  it  open,  and  crossed  the  threshold. 

The  hanging  lamp  shed  a  faint  light  over  the  room,  glimmering  on  the 
surface  of  the  mirror,  and  imparting  a  grotesque  outline  to  the  curtains 
of  the  bed. 

For  a  moment  Isaac  bent  his  head  and  listened.  A  death-like  stillness 
reigned.  Rushing  to  the  bed,  he  dashed  aside  the  hangings  and  extended 
his  hand  through  the  shadows.  That  withered  hand  rested  upon  a  warm 
cheek,  and  the  regular  breathing  of  an  untroubled  sleeper  came  gently  to 
the  old  man's  ear. 

"  It  is  well !    My  daughter  slumbers  she  cannot  by  any  chance 

have  " 

With  the  sentence  unfinished,  the  old  man  turned  away,  and  hurried 
from  the  room,  closing  the  door  with  a  sudden  crash. 

Scarcely  had  the  echo  of  his  footsteps  died  away,  when  a  face  appeared 
amid  the  cumbrous  hangings,  and,  by  the  faint  light,  the  large  lustrous 
eyes  and  fair  forehead,  darkened  by  a  swollen  vein,  were  seen. 

"  He  does  not  suspect  my  absence  Ah  !  My  heart  throbs  as  though 

it  would  burst.  How  I  shuddered,  as,  standing  in  the  darkness  of  the 
hall,  only  a  moment  since,  I  saw  him  go  down  into  the  secret  cells  of  the 
mansion  !" 

And  the  Wizard's  daughter,  attired  in  her  velvet  robe,  with  the  hood 
drawn  over  her  hair,  rose  from  the  bed,  and  slowly  paced  the  floor. 

"Had  I  been  a  moment  later,  all  would  have  been  discovered — O,  it  is 
indeed  fortunate  that  I  returned  in  time  to  fling  myself  beneath  the  coverlet, 
ere  my  father  came  to  my  bedside !  Had  I  been  absent,  when  his  ex- 
tended hand  sought  to  press  my  cheek  " 

The  proud  girl  shuddered,  for  there  was  something  in  the  icy  manner 
and  lonely  life  of  the  old  man,  which  impressed  her  heart  more  with  awe 
than  love. 

Then,  as  she  paced  the  floor,  she  suffered  her  dark  hair  to  float  loosely 
over  her  shoulders,  while  her  thoughts,  only  half-uttered,  still  centred 
upon  her  lover — 

"Paul!  He  will  come — perchance  within  the  hour — would  that  I 
could  unravel  the  mystery  of  that  fatal  room  !  Did  he  strike  the  old  man 
to  the  floor  ?    I  cannot  tell,  for  his  face  — ' 

She  shuddered  at  the  memory. 

'•  In  the  darkness  I  left  the  Block-house,  and  hurried  through  the  silent 
woods  to  my  home.  And  Paul — where  does  he  wander  now  ?  Would 
that  he  were  here,  his  hand  linked  in  mine,  his  lip  upon  mine  own  !  Then, 


206  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

even  in  the  midst  of  our  dream  of  love,  we  would  plan  the  glorious  Fu- 
ture, and  read  the  bright  landscape  of  the  coming  years,  with  the  eye  of 
Prophecy." 

Do  not  smile  at  the  passionate  extravagance  of  the  proud  girl,  who, 
reared  from  infancy  in  the  silence  of  these  forests — alone  with  her  enthu- 
siast father — afar  from  the  great  world — has  been  taught,  by  a  Voice  that 
speaks  from  the  air,  to  love  the  mysterious  Paul  of  Ardenheim,  to  invest 
his  face  with  the  mad  idolatry  of  a  boundless  passion  ! 

Wild  in  her  passion,  extravagant  in  her  words,  she  is  yet  surpassingly 
beautiful,  and  might  walk  among  the  coronetted  dames  of  a  royal  court, 
and  not  feel  abashed  amid  the  noblest  or  the  fairest  of  them  all. 

One  hand  rested  upon  her  bosom — it  was  firmly  clenched.  Her  small 
foot  beat  the  floor  with  a  nervous  motion.  The  serpentine  vein  started 
in  black  distinctness  from  her  forehead,  and,  with  her  hair  floating  along 
her  olive  cheeks,  she  stood  in  the  centre  of  her  chamber,  near  the  light, 
like  a  statue  of  some  dread  though  beautiful  Angel. 

"  What  means  this  singular  agitation  of  my  father  ?  He  cannot — no  ! 
no  !  Yet  wherefore  seek  my  chamber  at  the  dead  of  night?  It  was  but 
an  impulse  of  fatherly  love. — Paul !  Will  he  ever  return?" 

She  crossed  the  floor  with  that  proud  step,  which  added  a  wild  charm 
to  the  voluptuous  beauty  of  her  shape,  and,  standing  in  the  casement,  saw 
the  first  blush  of  the  coming  day,  glowing  softly  over  the  dark  woods. 
The  rays  of  the  lamp  and  the  flush  of  the  dawn  mingled,  and  created  a 
light  at  once  uncertain  and  spectral. 

"  Hast  thou  beheld  him  ?"  a  low,  musical  voice,  started  the  Wizard's 
daughter  from  her  reveries. 

It  is  the  Voice — "  ejaculated  the  ambitious  girl — "  I  have  beheld  him.' 

"  Did  he  enter  the  Sealed  Chamber  ?  Had  he  the  firmness  to  look  the 
Future  in  the  face  ?" 

He  entered  the  Sealed  Chamber,"  exclaimed  the  Wizard's  child. 

"Didst  thou  see  him  come  forth  again  ?" 

"I  did — "  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  trembled  at  the 
memory  of  that  Face. 
"  Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"I  know  not !  Speak  to  me  and  answer  !"  and,  with  her  brow  darkened 
by  a  frown,  the  girl  advanced  to  the  centre  of  the  room — "It  is  my  turn  to 
question,  yours  to  reply.  Hast  thou  not  spoken  falsely  ?  Hast  thou  not 
cheated  my  soul  with  an  idle  delusion  ?  If  thou  art  indeed  a  voice  from 
some  good  Angel  who  watches  over  the  strange  course  of  my  life,  then 
tell  me  at  once  the  mystery  of  that  Sealed  Chamber !  Wherefore  that 
awful  countenance  ?  wherefore  the  arm  extended  and  the  blow  ?  Where 
is  he  now,  this  Paul  of  Ardenheim,  whose  life  is  linked  with  mine  own?" 

It  was  a  singular  thing  to  see  the  proud  girl,  gazing  upon  the  vacant 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  207 

« 

air,  as  she  thus  boldly  questioned  the  Voice  whose  source  ^as  invisible, 
whose  purpose  incomprehensible 

There  was  a  pause  ;  no  answer  came. 

The  Wizard's  daughter  placed  her  hand  upon  her  forehead,  and  with 
her  finger  pressed  the  swollen  vein. 

"  All  will  be  made  known  to  thee  in  time !"  was  the  response  of  the 
Voice,  uttered  in  a  tone  of  profound  sadness. 

"  Ah — it  is  a  delusion.  I  am  dreaming.  Yes,  reared  afar  from  the 
world,  I  have  become  the  victim  of  my  own  fancies.  I  have  oftentimes 
read  of  madness — am  I  not  a  wretched  maniac,  an  object  of  pity  and 
loathing?" 

"  Thou  art  not  the  victim  of  idle  frenzy,  but  the  child  of  a  glorious 
Destiny.  Be  patient,  and  all  will  be  well. — Hast  thou  ever  dared  to  pene- 
trate the  recesses  of  thy  father's  most  secret  cell?" 

This  last  question,  uttered  in  a  tone  that  seemed  affected  by  sudden 
emotion,  startled  the  beautiful  girl,  with  involuntary  surprise. 

"Never  !"  she  replied. 

"  Hast  thou  not  this  very  night  crossed  the  sacred  threshold  of  that 
cell  ?  Pause  and  reflect.  Do  not  speak  falsely,  for  more  than  life  depends 
upon  your  answer." 

"I  have  never  crossed  that  threshold—"  was  the  firm  answer  of  the 
wondering  maiden. 

The  Voice  was  heard  no  more. 

While  the  kiss  of  day  grew  rosier  on  the  eastern  sky,  the  girl  remained 
motionless  and  pale  in  the  centre  of  her  chamber,  listening  in  speechless 
intensity  for  the  accents  of  that  Voice,  but  no  sound  awoke  the  echoes.  All 
was  sml  and  breathless.  Her  face  was  very  pale,  the  serpentine  vein 
upon  her  forehead  very  dark  and  distinct,  as  she  turned  toward  her 
couch.-  

Meanwhile,  the  Wizard,  after  a  fruitless  search  through  every  nook  and 
recess  of  his  mansion,  returned  again  to  the  silence  and  dim  radiance  of 
his  earth-hidden  cell.  Advancing  to  the  altar,  he  started  as  he  beheld  a 
dark  form  crouching  at  his  feet. 

"The  Idiot  here  !  Wretch  !  Hast  thou  dared  to  cross  this  threshold 
unbidden  ?" 

He  spurned  the  hunchback  with  his  foot — 
#" Arise,  and  answer  me!    Didst  thou  remove  the  body  of  the  dead 
girl  ?" 

While  his  thin  features  glowed  with  rage,  he  gazed  upon  the  shapeless 
form  of  the  Deformed,  and  once  more  pressed  his  foot  upon  his  neck. 
Black  David  slowly  rose,  and  with  the  tangled  hair  drooping  over  his 
features,  confronted  the  old  man. 

"  Eh  !  Measter?"  he  muttered— "Dost  touch  Black  David  with  thy  foot? 


205  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

Art  angry,  Measter?  Have  a  care — Black  David's  brain  is  thick — but  his 
arm  is  strong.    Measter  must  not  strike  him  in  anger." 

The  Wizard  saw  the  angry  light  of  the  hunchback's  eye,  and  took  him 
kindly  by  the  hand — 

"Pardon,  David,  pardon  1  am  sore  distressed.     The  great  hope  of 

my  life  is  crushed  but  you  cannot  comprehend  me.    Speak  to  me, 

David — it  grieves  me  that  I  was  angry  with  you — speak,  my  friend. 
Didst  thou  remove  the  body  of  the  dead  woman?  Tell  me  where  thou 
hast  hidden  it,  and  all  shall  be  forgotten.  Ha,  ha,  you  merry  knave !  You 
thought  you  would  frighten  your  old  master— is  it  so?" 

"Dead  body?"  growled  Black  David— "I  know  nothing  of  your  dead 
bodies.    I  was  asleep — and  thou  didst  spurn  me  with  'ee  foot — " 

Sullenly  the  Deformed  turned  away,  leaving  the  old  man  alone  by  the 
altar. 

"He  has  not  taken  her  away — "  muttered  Isaac— "It  is  plainly  to  be 
seen  that  the  poor  idiot  has  had  no  part  in  this  deed — " 

And  while  the  Wizard,  standing  near  the  altar,  murmured  these  words, 
the  Deformed  leaned  against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  vault,  and  placed  his 
hands  upon  his  face  — 

"This  hope  has  failed  me.  The  body  of  Madeline  is  gone  — I  know 
not  whither.    Isaac  cannot  tell — his  anguish  is  too  deep  to  be  feigned. 

His  daughter,  too  Ah!  that  in  planning  so  much  of  evil  to  others, 

I  only  bring  evil  to  myself!" 

Isaac  heard  the  voice  of  the  Deformed,  and,  turning  from  the  altar, 
exclaimed — 

"  Come  hither,  Black  David.    Art  angry  with  me  ?" 
He  took  the  hand  of  the  hunchback  within  his  own,  and  lid  him 
toward  the  light. 

"Why  man,  dost  thou  cherish  malice  ?  Again  I  tell  thee  that  it  grieves 
me  that  I  was  angered  with  thee.    Hah  !  What  is  this — a  tear  ! — " 

A  scalding  tear  fell  on  his  hand  as  he  spoke;  and  even  through  the  tan- 
gled hair,  he  saw  that  the  face  of  the  hunchback  was  bathed  in  moisture. 

"Dost  weep?  Art  angry  with  me  still?"  again  repeated  the  old  man, 
an  expression  of  compassion  softening  his  rigid  lineaments. 

But  the  Deformed  dashed  his  hand  aside,  and  glided  into  the  shadows 
of  the  cell. 

The  silence  which  ensued  was  scarcely  broken  by  a  sound,  while  half 
an  hour  elapsed.  The  pale  face  of  the  Wizard  looked  haggard  and  spec- 
tral by  the  light  of  the  altar-flame.  He  stood  clasping  his  hands  and 
'gazing  vacantly  toward  the  light,  every  lineament  impressed  with  despair. 

The  Deformed  was  lost  in  the  shadows  ;  his  sorrow,  too  deep  for 
utterance  or  for  tears,  was  buried  in  the  profound  gloom  of  the  cell. 

At  last  a  sound  disturbed  the  stillness  Its  unearthly  emphasis  came 
through  closed  doors  and  thick  walls,  and  broke  upon  the  silence  of  the 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


209 


cell,  like  the  groan  of  a  dying  man,  choked  by  the  hand  of  a  foe ;  a  hand 
which  pressed  the  white  lips  \nd  smothered  the  last  cry  of  life,  ere  it 
was  uttered.  Low,  indistinct  muttering,  that  sound  pierced  the  thick 
walls  ;  it  seemed  to  the  Wizard  as  though  the  old  mansion  was  suddenly 
endued  with  life ;  as  though  he  heard  the  throbbings  of  its  heart. 

The  Wizard's  daughter  approached  the  bed.  Parting  the  curtains,  she 
suffered  the  light  to  penetrate  the  gloom  which  hung  over  her  couch. 
Very  beautiful  she  looked  as  she  laid  aside  her  robe  of  velvet  and  fur, 
and  suffered  the  dark  hair  to  stream  freely  over  her  bosom.  With  the 
name  of  Paul  upon  her  lips,  she  sank  upon  the  pillow,  drawing  close  the 
curtains,  so  .that  no  ray  of  light  might  break  the  gloom  of  the  sacred 
retreat. 

Soon  she  resigned  herself  to  slumber ;  but  in  her  slumber  there  came 
a  dream  of  a  shadowy  path,  leading  far  down  into  the  nooks  of  a  summer 
wood.  There  were  threads  of  sunshine  quivering  over  the  sod  ;  flowers 
peeped  from  the  vines  that  trailed  among  the  branches  ;  the  murmur  of 
trees,  and  birds,  and  streams,  woven  together,  fell  on  her  senses  like  the 
blessing  of  good  angels.  But  suddenly*  from  the  flowers  which,  trem- 
bling from  the  vines,  overarched  her  way  with  bloom  and  fragrance,  pro- 
jected the  head  and  fangs  of  a  beautiful  serpent.  She  started  away  with 
horror,  but  an  inexplicable  fascination  drew  her  near  and  nearer  to  the 
snake,  whose  skin  of  bright  green  was  varied  by  drops  of  gojd.  A  dreamy 
music  issued  from  its  expanded  jaws  ;  there  was  a  strange  fascination  in 
its  eyes.  Unable  to  advance  or  recede,  she  stood  spell-bound,  when  the 
serpent  sprang  from  the  leaves,  and  buried  its  fangs  in  her  bosom.  She 
saw  the  blood,  she  felt  the  coil  of  the  snake  about  her  neck,  and  

The  dream  was  gone,  but  in  its  place,  a  terrible  reality.  Buried  in  the 
pillow,  with  her  couch  shrouded  by  the  hangings,  she  felt  a  hand  upon 
her  breast,  and  heard  the  sound  of  deep-drawn  breath.  Her  blood  grew 
cold;  she  could  not  speak  or  move;  the  overwhelming  terror  held  her 
dumb. 

The  hand  was  there — she  heard  the  deep-drawn  breath — and  panted* 
for  air,  as  though  the  chamber  was  filled  with  the  atmosphere  of  pesti- 
lence. 

She  would  have  given  the  world  for  the  power  to  move  or  speak;  there 
was  something  fearful  in  the  darkness  which  encompassed  her,  in  the  cold 
hand  which  pressed  her  bosom,  in  the  deep-drawn  breath  which  was 
keard  distinctly  through  the  stillness.  Her  senses  were  deadened  by  a 
sudden  stupor,  which,  while  it  left  her  without  speech  or  motion,  also  left 
her  painfully  conscious  of  the  cold  hand  laid  upon  her  breast.  *  *  *  * 

By  a  violent  effort,  she  dashed  aside  the  curtains  of  her  bed — all  was 
dark  in  her  chamber.  The  curtains,  closed  over  the  window,  shut  out 
the  light  of  the  dawning  day;  the  hanging  lamp  was  extinguished.  As 

14 


210 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


she  rose  in  the  couch,  the  hand  which  had  rested  upon  her  bosom, 

pressed  her  neck  she  was  nerved  by  despair  and  terror — with  one 

frenzied  motion,  she  sprang  from  the  bed. 

Standing  thus  in  the  shadows  of  her  chamber,  her  form,  only  half- 
covered,  quivering  with  cold,  she  gazed  toward  the  bed,  whose  outlines 
were  but  faintly  distinguishable,  and  listened  for  that  almost  inaudible 
sound  of  deep-drawn  breath.  She  heard  it  once  more — it  seemed  like 
the  gasping  of  a  death-stricken  man. 

Then  her  terror  found  utterance  in  a  shriek  which  pierced  every  nook 
and  chamber  of  the  old  mansion. 

Trembling  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  afraid  to  move  toward  the  bed  or 
toward  the  window,  the  light  of  the  dawn  growing  stronger  every  mo- 
ment, she  looked  fixedly  toward  the  bed.  Was  it  a  fancy  ?  Did  she  in- 
deed behold  a  white  arm  extended  from  the  shadows  of  of  the  bed  ? 

There  came  a  light,  a  red  light,  somewhat  obscured  by  heavy  smoke, 
—  it  flashed  from  the  opened  door,  and  disclosed  that  half-naked  form,  the 
face  unnaturally  pale  and  the  eyes  bright  with  preternatural  fear. 

The  maiden  turned  toward  the  door,  and  by  the  sudden  light  beheld  the 
pale  visage  of  her  father,  glowing  in  every  line  with  singular  triumph. 
Over  his  shoulder  appeared  the  face  of  the  Deformed,  the  eyes  shining 
with  supernatural  lustre  from  the  shadows  of  the  matted  hair. 

And  then,  turning  her  gaze  from  the  door,  as  she  beheld  the  eyes  of 
her  father  an^l  the  Deformed  enchained  by  some  object  near  her,  the 
Maiden  beheld — not  the  image  of  Paul  Ardenheim,  nor  yet  some  hideous 
spectre  summoned  by  blasphemous  rites  from  the  shadows  of  the  Other 
World. 

It  was  a  naked  form,  with  arms  folded  over  the  blood-stained  breast, 
with  brown  hair  waving  freely,  in  glossy  curls,  over  the  white  shoulders; 
eyes  uplifted,  wet  with  tears,  gazed  in  the  face  of  the  Wizard's  child,  and 
a  voice  broken  by  the  very  intensity  of  fear,  thrilled  on  the  silence — 

"  Save  me  !  Save  me  !  For  I  have  no  friend,  no  hope  but  in  you — " 

It  was  Madeline,  the  Orphan  Girl  of  Wissahikon. 


END  OF  BOOK  FIRST. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


211 


EPISODE. 

FROM  JANUARY,   1775,  TO  JUNE,  1777. 

Two  years  pass  away.  The  Manuscripts  from  which  this  history  is 
taken  have  not  a  word  to  say  in  regard  to  the  period  that  elapsed  from  the 
first  of  January,  1775,  until  some  time  in  June,  1777.  A  shadow  rests 
upon  the  history  of  the  Wissahikon  during  that  period — a  shadow 
unbroken  by  a  solitary  ray. 

Not  a  word  of  the  fate  of  Paul,  nor  of  the  Wizard's  child,  nor  of  Made- 
line, the  orphan  girl,— there  is  silence  and  night  upon  the  Wissahikon, 
while  these  years  pass  away. 

The  Manuscript  speaks  in  full  and  terrible  details  of  the  last  night  of 
1774  ;  but  after  that  night — so  crowded  with  incident  and  fate — is  over, 
there  is  a  blank  until  June,  1777.  It  is  therefore  in  June,  1777,  that  we 
are  to  take  up  again  the  broken  thread  of  our  narrative. 

From  the  1st  of  January,  1775,  to  June,  1777, — who  shall  dare  write 
the  history  of  that  time,  not  in  regard  to  the  Wissahikon  and  its  people, 
but  in  relation  to  the  American  Continent  ? 

Two  years  and  six  months  ! — In  times  of  peace,  when  traffic  freezes 
every  noble  pulsation  of  man  into  a  dull  torpor,  or  only  excites  the  soul 
into  a  feverish  lust  for  gold,  this  space  of  time  might  pass,  without  one 
event  more  glorious  than  a  rise  in  the  price  of  dry-goods,  or  one  thought 
higher  than  the  cobwebs  of  the  counting-house. 

But  this  was  no  time  for  mere  men  of  traffic,  nor  was  it  an  age  for  puny 
politicians.  It  was  the  time  of  men ;  the  age  of  noble  thoughts  ;  the 
epoch  of  deeds  inspired  by  God. 

When  the  year  1775  began,  a  Continent  lay  trembling  in  suspense,  its 
happiness  or  its  ruin  hanging  upon  the  changes  of  a  crowned  Idiot's  health. 
The  destiny  of  three  millions,  the  fate  of  hundreds  of  millions,  yet 
unborn,  depended  upon  the  health  of  an  Idiot.  It  looks  absurd,  but  it 
is  true. 

Behold  him,  ranging  the  half-lighted  corridor  of  yonder  palace,  his 
receding  forehead  impressed  with  the  curse  which  hangs  upon  his  race, 
his  eye  glassy  and  vacant,  his  nether-lip  trembling  in  a  meaningless 


212 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


smile.  There  are  beautiful  pictures  on  those  lofty  walls ;  the  light 
streams  through  windows  which  are  shadowed  by  curtains  of  silk  and 
gold  ;  before  and  behind  the  wandering  Idiot  are  ranges  of  lofty  chambers, 
furnished  with  every  thing  that  can  please  a  royal  eye,  or  wake  a  royal 
soul  from  the  torpor  of  satiety  into  one  quick  pulse  of  sensation. 

There  is  Royalty  in  the  very  atmosphere  ;  Royalty  glares  upon  him  in 
the  sunshine  ;  it  broods  in  the  silence  of  those  great  and  shadowy  rooms  ; 
and  the  Idiot  wandering  from  room  to  room,  from  corridor  to  corridor,  is 
King  of  England — King  of  the  eighth  part  of  the  World ;  the  Arbiter  of 
the  fate  of  America,  and  its  three  millions  of  people  ! 

Is  the  crowned  Idiot  cheerful  to-day  ?  Then  a  few  guineas  are  given 
to  the  beggars  who  clamor  in  the  kennels  near  his  palace  gates,  and  an 
army  of  licensed  cut-throats  is  hurried  over  the  waters,  to  crush  the  three 
millions  of  America  into  silence  and  slavery. 

Is  he  gloomy  ?  Has  the  last  prescription  of  the  royal  physician  failed 
to  quicken  his  blood,  and  clear  the  fog  of  his  brain  ?  Has  the  curse  of 
his  reason  developed  itself  in  grotesque  forms  ?  Does  he  see  foul 
reptiles  creeping  over  the  rich  carpet  at  his  feet,  or  behold  himself 
encircled  by  a  throng  of  hideous  phantoms  ? 

Then  woe  to  America  !  woe  to  Ireland  !  woe  to  Man  !  For  at  once,  in 
obedience  to  the  commands  of  this  poor  wretch,  who  is  more  miserable 
with  his  crown,  than  the  vilest  leper  of  St.  Giles  with  his  rags,  armies 
hurry  to  and  fro,  crushing  into  dust,  into  blood,  the  hopes  of  millions  of 
mankind. 

The  Ministers  of  State  are  listening  near  the  door  of  the  Idiot's 
chamber  ;  they  are  awaiting  for  his  commands.  Upon  the  words  which 
fall  from  his  lips,  hangs  the  fate  of  England,  Ireland,  Scotland,  America; 
the  fate  of  one-eighth  of  the  entire  globe. 

For  he  is  King.  King  !  Pursued  by  the  curse  which  has  descended 
from  age  to  age  upon  his  race  ;  frightened  in  his  royal  chambers  by  the 
phantoms  of  a  maniac's  frenzy  ;  afraid  of  the  motes  that  float  in  the  sun ; 
afraid  of  the  shadow  on  the  wall,  he  is  yet  a  King ;  and  the  drivelling  of 
his  Idiot's  lip  is  law  and  fate  to  some  hundred  millions  of  souls. 

Beautiful  picture  of  the  divine  right  of  Kings  ! 

These  fits  of  frenzy,  this  torpor  of  idiotic  vacancy,  which  by  turns 
possess  the  Monarch,  are  known  only  to  the  few  who  are  admitted  to  his 
privacy ;  knOwn  only  to  some  nine  or  ten  persons  in  a  hundred  millions. 

Yet  he  is  King,  by  Grace  of  God  too,  commissioned  by  Heaven  to  tax, 
and  murder,  and  maim  the  human  race,  to  convert  whole  nations  into 
sepulchres,  and  drain  the  life-blood  from  a  million  hearts. 

And  yet  they  tell  us  that  there  is  no  beauty  in  Royalty,  nothing  sub- 
lime in  the  atmosphere  inhaled  by  Kings  ! 

In  all  the  pages  of  history,  there  is  no  picture  which  for  a  moment  will 
compare  with  this  solitary  Fact: — 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  213 

In  1775,  George,  the  grandson  of  George  the  Second,  was  King  of 
England  ;  that  is  to  say,  King  of  England,  Scotland,  Ireland,  America, 
and  India.  He  was  thirty-eight  years  of  age.  He  was  subject  to 
moments  of  unutterable  gloom ;  now  threatened  with  madness,  now 
torpid  with  blank  idiocy.  Of  this  fact,  his  subjects  knew  nothing ;  if  a 
vague  rumor  crept  abroad,  it  was  crushed  at  once,  as  a  blasphemy.  In 
lucid  intervals,  that  is  to  say,  ivhen  idiocy  quickened  for  an  instant  into 
thought,  or  madness  became  for  a  moment  calm,  he  governed  the  eighth 
part  of  the  world,  and  decided  the  fate  of  the  millions  who  then  existed,  and 
stamped  his  impress  upon  the  fate  of  hundreds  of  millions  yet  unborn. 

Is  it  not  a  beautiful  thought  ? 

Summon  all  the  horrors  of  history  ;  crowd  into  one  page  the  accumu- 
lated crimes  of  a  thousand  years,  and  still  you  have  nothing  half  so  hor- 
rible as  this  solitary  fact — that  an  Idiot,  whose  idiocy  is  unknown  to  the 
world,  should  decide,  by  the  drivellings  of  his  idiocy,  the  fate  of  millions 
of  immortal  souls ;  souls  born  of  God,  redeemed  by  Christ ;  every  one 
as  precious  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  as  the  soul  of  any  King  that  ever 
lived. 

O  for  a  high  mass,  chanted  by  devils,  amid  the  carnage  of  a  battle-field, 
in  honor  of  the  Divine  Right  of  Kings  ! 

It  was  this  Idiot  King  who,  in  1775,  held  in  his  hand — under  the 
royal  pen,  agitated  by  the  tremors  of  lunacy— the  fate  of  America. 

At  his  command,  the  leper  of  the  jail  and  the  cut-throat  of  St.  Giles, 
the  starved  wretch  of  the  factory,  and  the  peasant  of  the  field — all 
assumed  the  scarlet  uniform,  took  sword  and  bayonet,  were  disciplined 
into  all  the  minute  details  of  murder,  and  sent  over  the  ocean  to  assert  the 
Divine  Right  of  the  King  among  the  valleys  of  the  New  World. 

Wherefore  ?  Because  the  people  of  the  New  World  .refused  to  pay  a 
tax,  or  would  not  do  obeisance  to  the  petty  ministers  who  encircled  the 
petty  King?  No.  This  does  not  comprise  the  whole  truth  of  the  con- 
test. It  was,  in  a  word,  because  King  George  of  England  wished  to  bind 
the  land  of  the  New  World  to  his  crown,  as  his  property,  his  own  espe- 
cial domain,  subject  to  every  impulse  of  his  will,  and  to  the  caprices  of 
all  Kings — Idiots  or  Murderers — who  might  come  after  him. 

The  people  of  America  did  not  recognise  with  any  favor  this  idea  of  the 
King. 

Therefore,  roughly  clad  in  the  garb  of  farmer  and  mechanic,  they  met 
the  vassals  of  the  King,  on  a  pleasant  day  in  April,  1775,  and  shot  them 
from  the  shelter  of  the  hedge  by  the  roadside,  and  confronted  them  in  the 
centre  of  the  highway,  opposing  their  rude  fowling-pieces  to  the  glittering 
arms  of  the  royal  soldiers. 

The  day  was  April  19th,  and  the  place  was  Lexington. 

The  blood,  smoking  on  the  roadside  and  in  the  fields  of  Lexington, 
spoke  to  the  hearts  of  millions,  and  roused  a  people  into  arms. 


214  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

It  was  on  the  10th  of  May,  1775,  that  a  band  of  farmers  and  mechanics, 
with  here  and  there  a  lawyer  or  a  rich  man,  assembled  in  Philadelphia, 
and  were  known  as  the  Continental  Congress.  This  congress,  with  pro- 
fessions of  love  for  the  King,  coupled  scorn  for  his  Ministers,  and  resist- 
ance to  his  laws.  They  were  yet  in  that  twilight  which  descends  upon 
the  souls  of  men,  just  before  the  daybreak  of  freedom.  Joined  to  England 
by  ties  of  ancestry,  by  the  language  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  by  English 
customs  and  English  laws,  they  trembled  at  the  idea  of  a  separate  destiny. 
They  were  afraid  of  independence. 

And  while  the  Congress  of  the  New  World  was  in  session  in  Philadel- 
phia, there  came  to  Boston  another  British  Army,  sent  by  the  British 
King — in  one  of  his  lucid  intervals  perchance — and  with  this  army  were 
gallant  soldiers,  Clinton,  Burgoyne  and  Howe.  This  was  on  the  25th 
of  May,  1775. 

.  But,  on  a  clear  starry  night  in  June,  there  were  shadows  moving  on  the 
hill  and  along  the  shore ;  there  were  boats  upon  the  waves,  and  the  sub- 
dued tread  of  armed  men  broke  through  the  stillness.  Then  there  was, 
all  at  once,  the  peal  of  musquetry  mingled  with  the  hurrah  of  conflict ;— . 
there  were  smoke-clouds  rolling  into  the  sky,  like  shrouds  for  the  dead ; 
— there  was  fighting  on  the  hill-top,  where  peasants,  behind  a  bank  of 
mud,  levelled  whole  lines  of  splendid  soldiers  into  dust ; — there  was  a 
brave  young  man,  named  Warren,  who  grappled  the  bayonet  that  stabbed 
him,  and  poured  forth  his  blood  upon  the  grass  as  a  holy  oblation  unto 
freedom. 

The  British  were  driven  back,  defeated  and  mocked  by  a  peasant  army, 
encamped  near  Boston,  on  the  heights  of  Bunker  Hill. 

That  word,  Bunker  Hill,  coupled  with  the  name  of  Warren,  spoke  like 
the  voice  of  God  to  the  Continental  Congress  and  to  the  people  of  the 
Thirteen  Provinces.  :' 

Blood  had  been  shed ;  Lexington  found  an  echo  in  Bunker  Hill ;  there 
was  no  time  for  hesitation ;  no  thought  of  submission. 

The  Congress  determined  to  raise  an  army.  Where  should  a  leader  be 
found  ?  The  British  King  had  generals  of  renown,  who  were  skilled  in 
shedding  blood,  perfect  in  the  art  of  leading  uniformed  slaves  to  deeds  of 
Murder.  But  where  should  the  Continental  Congress  find  a  leader  for 
their  peasant  army  1 

It  was  a  question  of  awful  moment.  There  was  no  time  for  hesitation, 
however,  and  the  eyes  of  the  farmers  and  mechanics,  the  rich  men  and 
the  lawyers,  who  composed  the  Continental  Congress,  were  turned 
towards  one  of  their  number.  He  was  a  man  of  forty-three  years  of  age. 
His  stature  was  commanding ;  his  face  full  of  energy  and  fire.  He  was 
a  man  to  be  remarked  in  a  crowd  of  ten  thousand.  Not  often  did 
he  speak,  but  his  words  were  concise  and  to  the  point — every  word  em- 
bodied an  idea,  and  overwhelmed  with  its  truth  the  hearts  of  all  who 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


215 


listened.  This  man,  plainly  attired  in  the  garb  of  a  planter,  was  chosen 
as  the  Leader  of  the  Continental  armies.  He  sat  listening  to  a  speech, 
which  rung  in  words  of  fire  from  the  lips  of  bold  John  Adams,  and  the 
last  word  of  the  speech  was  his  own  name.  Covered  with  blushes,  the 
Planter  fled  from  the  Hall  of  Congress  ;  but  soon  the  people  of  Thirteen 
Provinces  recognized  their  champion  in  the  person  of  this  Virginian 
Planter,  and  King  George — may  be  in  one  of  his  lucid  intervals — heard, 
for  the  first  time,  the  name  of  George  Washington. 

Then  began  the  epoch  of  illustrious  deeds.  The  young  Commander 
Washington,  secluded  in  his  tent  near  Cambridge,  surveyed  the  map  of 
the  New  World,  and  laid  his  sword  upon  it,  the  hilt  resting  upon  Labra- 
dor, while  the  point  touched  Patagonia,  thus  symbolizing  the  great  purpose 
of  his  soul — the  possession  of  the  Continent  of  freemen. 

From  this  camp  near  Cambridge  went,  one  autumn  day,  a  man  who 
was  bold  enough  to  think  of  the  conquest  of  Canada.  He  was  followed 
by  eleven  hundred  men.  He  was  determined  to  traverse  three  hundred 
miles  of  untrodden  wilderness  with  this  little  army,  and  then  attack  the 
Gibraltar  of  America,  the  rock  of  Quebec.  He  did  traverse  the  wilder- 
ness ;  ice,  snow,  trackless  ravines,  impetuous  torrents,  days  of  starvation, 
and  nights  of  hopeless  extremity — all  these  he  dared,  he  and  his  band  of 
iron  men. 

Onrthe  last  night  of  1775,  he  stood  on  the  rock  of  Quebec,  under  a 
leaden  sky,  his  uniform  whitened  by  the  fast-falling  snow.  He  took  by 
the  hand  a  youthful  soldier,  whose  handsome  face  was  contrasted  with  the 
bold  outlines  of  his  own  visage.  They  plighted  faith  together;  they  swore 
to  meet  in  Quebec  in  victory  or  in  death.  On  the  rock  which  had  borne, 
not  fifteen  years  before,  the  corses  of  Montcalm  and  Wolfe,  the  little  army 
of  Continentals  prepared  to  attack  and  possess  Quebec.  This  was  when 
the  daybreak  was  yet  faint  and  dark,  while  the  St.  Lawrence,  heaving 
sullenly  under  rocks  of  ice,  was  whitened  by  the  falling  snow. 

When  the  day  was  bright,  and  the  sun  shone  vividly  over  the  City  and 
rock,  covered  by  frozen  snow,  there  was  a  mangled  body  amid  five  other 
corses  on  Cape  Diamond.  It  was  the  wreck  of  the  youthful  soldier, 
Richard  Montgomery. 

There  were  heaps  of  dead  by  the  St.  Charles ;  dismal  stains  of  blood 
upon  the  barriers  ;  corses  and  wounded  in  the  dark  streets  of  Quebec. 
There  was  the  soldier  of  the  wilderness,  covered  with  wounds,  and  fighting 
as  he  sank  upon  the  frozen  snow,  fighting  on,  until  his  sight  was  dim,  his 
arm  stiffened.    His  name  was  Benedict  Arnold. 

The  attack  was  glorious,  though  unsuccesful ;  the  Americans  did  not 
possess  the  town,  but  they  won  another  name.  To  Bunker  Hill  and 
Lexington  they  added  Quebec.  These  names  are  greater  than  armies  in 
a  good  cause. 

And  all  the  while,  as  the  hand  and  brain  of  Washington  gave  impulse 


216  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

to  the  Continental  armies,  as  battle  after  battle  added  to  the  list  of  King 
George's  victims,  and  the  smoke  of  the  conflict  ascended  to  heaven,  with 
the  souls  of  the  dead,  the  Americans  were  fighting,  not  for  Independence, 
but  for  a  change  in  the  British  Ministry.  They  were  still  afraid  of  that 
word,  Independence. 

While  Arnold  fell  covered  with  wounds,  and  Montgomery  lay  a  crushed 
and  bloody  image  upon  the  rock  of  Quebec,  there  was  a  battle  fighting  in 
another  part  of  the  Continent.  It  was  a  fearful  battle.  It  was  not  a 
battle  fought  with  rnusquet  and  cannon,  or  with  scalping-knife  and  toma- 
hawk ;  nor  were  armies  of  men  called  up  on  gory  fields,  opposed  to  each 
other's  throats,  and  set  upon  each  other  like  rabid  beasts,  in  this  contest. 

No  !  It  was  a  battle  fought  by  one  man,  his  only  weapons  a  quill, 
some  sheets  of  paper,  and  a  bottle  of  ink. 

While  Arnold  was  bleeding  in  Quebec,  this  man  was  sitting  in  a 
garret  in  Philadelphia,  surveying  certain  loose  sheets  of  paper,  which 
were  crowded  with  the  intense  workings  of  his  brain  for  the  last  six 
months.  From  June  until  December,  he  had  been  engaged  in  this  battle; 
that  is  to  say,  he  had  been  embodying  upon  those  loose  sheets  of  paper, 
an  idea  which  would  work  more  judgment,  more  ruin  for  King  George, 
than  all  the  armies  of  the  world. 

While  the  last  groan  of  Montgomery  arose  to  God  from  the  dark  rock 
of  Quebec,  this  man  in  the  Philadelphia  garret  gazed  upon  his  manu- 
scripts, and,  with  a  brightening  eye,  beheld  the  idea  which  was  to  con- 
quer King  George  embodied  in  a  single  word. 

Soon  the  news  of  Quebec  came  to  Philadelphia,  and  soon  the  manu- 
scripts of  the  unknown,  poured  into  the  alembic  of  the  printing-press,  ap- 
peared in  the  shape  of  a  Book. 

The  name  of  that  Book  was  in  itself  a  Battle.  To  Bunker  Hill, 
Ticonderoga,  Lexington,  Quebec,  the  American  people  now  added  the 
name  of  the  book,  "  Common  Sense." 

The  Idea  of  that  book  entered  Congress,  and  spoke  to  the  hearts  of  the 
great  men  there,  and  awed  the  little  men  into  silence.  To  Jefferson,  to 
Adams,  to  Franklin,  to  Sherman,  and  to  all  who  were  like  them,  the  idea 
spoke  in  the  still  small  voice  of  a  Truth,  armed  with  the  omnipotence 
of  God. 

At  last  the  Idea  fought  its  battle  in  the  hall  of  Congress,  and  it  became 
embodied  forever  in  the  word,  Independence. 

On  a  calm  summer  evening,  the  9th  of  July,  1776,  the  Continental 
troops  encamped  near  New  York,  were  informed  by  their  General,  that 
the  American  Congress  had  declared  these  Colonies  to  be  Free  and  In- 
dependent States. 

The  names  grew  on  the  scroll  of  American  glory.  Another  name, 
enshrining  a  thought  even  as  body  does  a  soul,  was  added  to  Lexington, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


217 


Bunker  Hill,  Quebec,  Common  Sense.  It  was  a  name  that  was  the  re- 
sult of  all  the  other  names,  and  the  embodiment  of  all — Independence. 

The  King  of  England,  in  one  of  his  lucid  intervals,  heard  of  this  word, 
proclaimed  from  the  Council  Hall  of  the  New  World,  and  chorused  by 
the  battle-cries  of  Armies.  Even  as  Pharaoh  of  a  more  ancient  kingdom, 
grew  more  blind  and  drunk  with  fury,  as  the  hour  of  God's  judgments 
came  near  and  nearer,  so  King  George  vented  his  royal  rage  in  new  mea- 
sures, new  armies,  new  assassinations. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  1776,  that  the  darkest  cloud  gathered  over 
the  Idea  of  a  Nation.  "  Independence"  seemed  doomed  to  vanish  in 
mists  of  blood.  There  was  ice  upon  the  Delaware,  near  Trenton.  Did 
this  ice  freeze  into  one  compact  mass,  and  spread  a  firm  pathway  from 
shore  to  shore  ?  Then  the  cause  of  the  New  World  was  lost.  Upon  so 
slight  a  fact  hung  the  destiny  of  Washington  and  the  cause. 

For,  on  the  eastern  shore  of  the  river,  was  the  British  Army,  strong  in 
arms,  in  discipline,  very  comfortable,  with  well-spread  tables  and  fine 
apparel. 

On  the  western  shore,  with  a  mob  of  half-clad  men,  was  Washington, 
with  scarce  a  place  in  which  to  lay  his  head,  scarce  a  roof  to  shelter  his 
starving  soldiers.  To  nakedness  and  starvation,  hovering  like  spectres 
about  his  camp,  was  added  a  sadder  and  darker  phantom — Treason. 

Upon  the  freezing  of  the  Delaware,  therefore,  depended  the  fate  of 
Washington  and  the  cause.  The  river  once  frozen  from  shore  to  shore, 
these  Britons  and  Hessians,  cozily  encamped  in  Trenton,  will  cross  on 
the  ice,  and  make  an  easy  prey  of  the  starving  mob  who  skulk  along  the 
western  hills. 

There  was  a  God  in  Heaven,  at  this  dark  hour,  and  Washington  did  not 
despair.  His  men  suffering  from  hunger  and  cold,  Treason  scowling 
upon  his  camp,  Congress  almost  hopeless  of  the  cause,  Washington  did 
not  despair.  He  even  wished  to  add  another  name  to  Bunker  Hill,  Lex- 
ington, Quebec,  Common  £>ense,  Independence. 

Therefore,  some  time  in  the  dark  hours  of  Christmas  Night,  he  placed 
his  starving  men  in  boats.  He  besought  them  to  look  to  the  priming  of 
their  guns,  and  keep  their  powder  dry.  That  is,  such  of  them  as  had 
guns  and  powder.  Those  who  were  destitute  of  powder  and  -guns, 
almost  destitute  of  rags,  took  such  arms  as  they  could  find — perchance  a 
broken  sword,  maybe  a  rusted  bayonet. 

While  the  British  and  the  Hessians  were  combating  legions  of  turkeys, 
parallelograms  of  roast  beef,  and  hogsheads  of  ale, — cozily  keeping  their 
drunken  Christmas  in  Trenton — Washington  came  upon  them  with  his 
starving  mob. — Ere  the  dawn  was  bright,  another  name  was  written  be- 
side Bunker  Hill,  Lexington,  Quebec,  Common  Sense  and  Independence. 

Trenton  ! 

And  thus,  enlivened  now  and  then  by  a  sudden  glare,  the  dreary  Night 


213  ,  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR,' 

of  Revolution  passed  on.  The  day  was  to  brighten  at  last,  but  there  were 
still  many  dark  hours  between  Washington  and  the  light  of  perfect 
freedom. 

It  is  June,  1777.    How  stands  the  cause  of  freedom  now? 

We  may  not  enter  into  all  the  details  of  the  history  of  our  land ;  let  us 
compress  some  events  of  the  Future  into  pictures.  June  is  now  in  blos- 
som— what  says  the  autumn  and  the  winter,  of  the  cause  of  freedom  ? 

—  Gaze  along  this  meadow,  embosomed  in  the  foliage  of  a  lovely  valley, 
gemmed  with  orchards,  and  sparkling  with  a  stream  of  clear  cold  water. 
There  is  sunshine  upon  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  shadow  all  around. 
From  clusters  of  forest  trees,  gray  stone  walls  are  visible  ;  the  walls  of 
peaceful  homes,  protected  by  the  solitude  of  this  world-hidden  valley.  Is 
it  not  one  of  those  scenes  which  speak  to  the  soul  of  quiet — peace — un- 
utterable peace — and  mock  the  petty  greatness  of  wealth,  the  swelling 
vanity  of  ambition,  to  scorn  ? 

And  this  peaceful  valley,  secluded  from  the  world,  shut  up  in  its  own 
loveliness,  will  soon  be  rich  in  graves.  There  will  be  cold  faces  in  the 
light  of  a  setting  sun ;  the  grass  will  be  wet  with  a  bloody  rain  ;  the  stream 
crimson.  And  this  will  be,  ere  the  blossoms  on  yonder  trees  have 
ripened  into  fruit. 

For  it  is  the  valley  of  the  Brandywine. 

There  is  a  house  of  dark  gray  stone,  standing  in  a  sort  of  rural  majesty, 
at  the  eastern  extremity  of  a  smooth  green  lawn.  To  the  north  and  to 
the  south,  from  this  mansion,  spread  the  tenements  of  a  quiet  town, 
whose  gables  peep  from  gardens  and  orchard  trees.  Upon  the  roof  of 
the  stone  mansion  lingers  the  last  ray  of  the  June  sun,  and  not  a  breeze 
is  there  to  shake  the  white  blossoms  from  the  boughs,  or  stir  into  motion 
the  smooth  verdure  of  the  lawn. 

—  Ere  these  trees  are  touched  by  winter,  yes,  as  they  are  clad  in  the 
rainbows  of  autumn,  there  will  be  some  hundreds  of  dead  bodies  stretched 
in  horrible  confusion  over  this  lawn,  in  all  the  grotesque  shapes  of  sudden 
and  violent  death. 

For  the  mansion  is  Chew's  House,  and  the  village  is  called  Ger- 
mantown. 

Behind  these  pictures  of  the  pleasant  valley  of  Brandywine,  and 
the  town  of  Germantown,  I  see  a  range  of  snow-clad  hills,  crowned  with 
huts,  and  crowded  with  half-naked  and  famine-stricken  men.  A  name  is 
written  there — it  speaks  of  suffering  that  has  no  tongue,  of  anguish  only 
to  be  soothed  by  tears  of  blood — for  that  name  is  Valley  Forge. 

We  will  follow  the  thread  of  this  singular  history  of  the  olden  time, 
and  while  we  learn  the  fate  of  Paul — of  the  Wizard's  child — of  Madeline 
—-we  may  perchance  behold  some  traces  of  the  fight  of  Brandywine, 
some  tokens  of  Germantown,  and  come  at  last  to  the  huts  and  snow 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  §19 

of  Valley  Forge.  We  may,  perchance,  converse  with  Washington,  and 
take  by  the  hand  the  Boy-General,  Gilbert  La  Fayette. 

But  neither  the  great  facts,  nor  the  great  names  of  general  history, 
shall  win  us  from  the  individual  narrative  of  the  Wissahikon  people.  Let 
us  translate  the  dark  cyphers  of  the  ancient  record— let  us  give  voice  and 
speech  to  the  dim  Chronicle  of  old. 

Shall  we  behold  Paul  of  Ardenheim  again  ?  Even  now  I  behold  that 
bronzed  face,  shadowed  by  dark  hair,  lighted  by  eyes,  whose  strange 
lustre  awes  and  wins  the  hearts  of  men.  Even  now  I  see  the  pure 
spiritual  manhood  of  that  virgin  soul  battling  with  the  physical  realities 
of  life,  with  the  base  and  gross  temptations  of  the  world. 

Shall  the  spirit  of  the  Dreamer  come  forth  from  the  ordeal,  without 
blemish  or  scar  ? 

But  even  as  we  ask  the  question,  Paul  is  a  perjured  and  dishonored 
Man,  for  an  overwhelming  thought  crowds  upon  our  souls.  The  Sealed 
Chamber,  and  the  secret,  which  drove  Paul  out  into  the  world,  a  scorner 
of  his  father's  gray  hairs,  with  the  stain  of  Perjury  upon  his  soul ! 

A  secret  armed  with  supernatural  power,  darkened  by  mystery,  as  im- 
penetrable as  the  blackness  which  rests  upon  the  World  beyond  the 
Grave  ! 

We  may  enter  the  old  Monastery  once  again.  We  may  read  the  name 
of  the  Deliverer  concealed  in  the  Urn.  Gathering  courage  for  our  task, 
we  may  even  confront  that  door  whose  dark  panels  are  traced  with  the 
sign  of  the  Cross.  And  then  but  a  step  between  us  and  the  Secret  of  the 
Sealed  Chamber.    Shall  we  look  upon  that  fatal  mystery  ? 

Shall  the  Deformed,  now  known  as  Black  David,  now  as  the  Invisible, 
ever  rush  before  our  path  again,  like  a  lurid  cloud  before  the  light  of  a 
summer  day  ? 

Winding  among  those  quiet  shades,  and  by  those  still  waters  of  the 
Wissahikon,  shall  we  chance  upon  a  new-made  grave,  and  find  upon  a 
rustic  tombstone  the  name  of  Madeline  ? 

Jovial  Peter  Dormer,  with  beard  of  snow  and  cheeks  of  flame,  shall  we 
ever  talk  with  thee  again,  or  sit  beside  thy  broad  hearth  and  quaff  deep 
draughts  to  Christmas  Eve  ? 

Or  the  Wizard's  child,  so  queenly  in  her  bearing,  so  like  a  spirit  in  her 
starry  loveliness,  with  her  dark  eyes  fired  by  ambition  and  love,  with  the 
serpentine  vein  swelling  like  a  prophecy  upon  her  brow — shall  we  ever 
behold  the  beautiful  Atheist  again  ? 

The  Wizard  himself,  a  haggard  old  man — old  before  his  time, 
and  withered  by  fanaticism  into  premature  decay— shall  we  converse 
with  him  once  more,  and  learn  the  result  of  his  life-long  meditation? 
Is  his  dream  of  Immortal  Life  upon  earth  only  a  dream  ?  or  shall  he 
appear  before  us,  clad  in  the  vigor  of  young  manhood,  irresistible  with  the 
power  of  boundless  wealth. 


22fl  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

Then  another  face  comes  faintly  to  our  view;  the  face  of  the  aged 
man,  who,  companioned  only-by  his  children,  waited  in  the  Block:house 
of  Wissahikon,  not  for  the  secret  of  immortal  life  on  earth,  or  for  the 
power  of  unbounded  wealth,  but  for  the  coming  of  the  Kingdom  of  the 
Lord.  We  have  seen  him  reel  beneath  the  blow  of  his  son ;  we  have  seen 
that  son  rush  forth  from  the  Monastery,  with  the  stamp  of  Fate  upon 
his  forehead.    Does  the  old  man  yet  survive  ? 

Treading  gently  through  the  dim  corridors  of  the  Block-house,  shall 
we  once  more  meet  the  vision  of  that  gentle  face,  with  blue  eyes  and  long, 
flowing,  golden  hair  ? 

We  may  behold  the  Secret  Brotherhood  again,  assembled  in  mysteri- 
ous council,  and  bound  to  blind  obedience  by  oaths  too  blasphemous  for 
repetition.  A  strange  Brotherhood,  with  Lodge  rising  into  Lodge, 
Degree  above  Degree,— an  inexplicable  complication  of  castes,  controlled 
by  One  Man.  That  solitary  ruler,  either  Gilbert  the  huntsman,  or  the 
Deformed,  or  yet,  perchance,  some  man  altogether  new  to  our  sigljt. 

These  questions  start  to  our  lips,  as  we  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  a 
new  Epoch  in  our  history ;  these,  and  a  thousand  others,  full  of  the  same 
pervading  interest  and  mystery. 

Let  us  translate  the  dusk  cyphers  of  the  ancient  record — let  us  give 
voice  and  speech  to  the  dim  Chronicle  of  old. 


I' 


BOOK  THE  SECOND 


THE 


SEC  RET 


OF  THE 


SEALED  CHAMBER. 


■ 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 

9 


223 


CHAPTER  FIRST. 

AFTER  TWO  YEARS. 

Under  an  arbor  fresh  with  virtes,  and  fragrant  with  flowers,  sat  Peter 
Dorfner,  his  rotund  form  resting  in  a  stout  oaken  chair.  It  was  a  very 
pleasant  thing  to  note  the  contrast  between  his  red  cheeks  and  white 
beard,  and  the  deep  green  of  the  leaves,  the  varied  tints  of  the  flowers. 
Before  him  was  placed  a  table  of  unpainted  oak,  on  which  sundry  sus- 
picious bottles  stood  like  the  sentinels  of  the  scene.  And  half-closing  his 
eyes,  with  his  limbs  resting  on  a  bench,  old  Peter  resigned  himself  to  the 
calm  delights  of  rum  and  tobacco. 

It  was  a  pleasant  arbor,  standing  at  one  end  of  the  garden,  near  the 
farm-house,  whose  closed  doors  and  windows  looked  black  and  desolate 
beneath  the  cheerful  light  of  the  summer  sun. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  old  Peter  was  surrounded  by  all  the  delights 
that  can  render  a  man  peaceful  with  himself  and  the  world.  Lulled  by 
the  unceasing  murmur  of  the  bees,  who  sung  their  songs  among  the 
flowers,  with  the  fragrance  of  new-mown  hay  stealing  gently  over  the 
fields,  Peter  Dorfner,  with  his  red  cheeks  and  snowy  beard,  his  capacious 
form  spreading  lazily  in  the  oaken  chair,  looked  altogether  like  a  picture 
of  some  corpulent  satyr  of  Grecian  story,  clad  in  brown  cloth,  with  a  pipe 
in  its  mouth,  and  a  bottle  of  rum  near  its  hand.  Or,  in  case  this  compari- 
son should  seem  unjust,  we  might  compare  him  to  some  Hermit  of  the 
middle  ages,  who  disgusted  with  the  vanity  of  the  world,  had  retired  to 
some  secluded  forest,  and  sworn  a  solemn  oath,  to  devote  himself  forever 
to  fatness  and  sleep,  those  cardinal  duties  of  the  monks  of  old. 

Beyond  the  garden,  amid  whose  plants  and  flowers  the  arbor  rose,  a 
green  field  smiled  in  the  June  sunbeams,  and  stretched  to  the  south  and 
west  in  gentle  undulations,  until  it  was  bounded  by  the  summer  woods. 
Strong  men,  with  arms  bare  and  scythe  in  hand,  toiled  among  the  grass, 
scattering  swarths  of  fragrant  hay  as  they  hurried  along.  Tired  cattle 
were  grouped  in  the  shade,  on  the  verge  of  the  wood ;  aldermanic  oxen 
and  matronly  cows,  snuffing  the  scent  of  the  new-mown  hay,  from  which 
they  were  separated  by  that  kind  of  rural  architecture,  known  in  grave  an- 
nals as  "  Worm  Fence."  Now  and  then,  the  sound  of  the  whetstone  ap- 
plied to  the  scythe,  came  merrily  over  the  field,  mingled  with  the  lowing 
of  cattle,  and  the  subdued  murmur  of  the  hidden  stream. 


224  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

Summer  was  upon  the  scene,  in  all  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  June. 
There  was  a  serene  sky,  only  varied  by  passing  clouds,  who  turned  their 
white  bosoms  to  the  sun,  and  floated  slowly  over  the  woods.  There 
was  a  drowsy  fragrance  in  the  very  air,  a  fulness  of  intoxicating  odours; 
and  the  bees  among  the  flowers,  the  lowing  cattle  grouped  in  the  shadows, 
the  clang  of  the  scythe,  and  the  indistinct  sound  of  the  wood-hidden  Wis- 
sahikon,  formed  the  music  of  the  scene,  a  very  lulling  music  altogether, 
full  of  summer  and  voluptuous  as  June. 

But  the  old  farm-house  looked  sad  and  deserted.  There  were  green 
vines  trailing  about  its  steep  roof,  and  flinging  their  leaves,  their  flowers, 
from  the  very  point  of  the  high  gable ;  \he  chesnut  tree  was  glorious  with 
verdure,  but  the  doors  of  the  farm-house,  the  closed  shutters,  gave  it  a 
lonely  and  desolate  appearance. 

Secluded  in  the  arbor,  his  only  companions  the  pipe  and  the  bottles, 
Peter  Dorfner  took  his  ease,  and  winked  sleepily  at  care,  as  though  there 
was  never  a  thing1  like  trouble  in  the  world. 

Two  years  have  passed  since  we  beheld  him  last,  two  years  full  of  in- 
terest and  incident,  and  the  face  of  Peter  discloses  more  wrinkles  about 
the  eyes,  more  fatness  in  the  cheeks,  a  sublirner  rotundity  about  the  form. 
Brown  waistcoat  loosened,  hose  ungartered,  and  cravat  thrown  aside, 
Peter  languidly,  smoked  his  pipe,  and  seemed  hesitating  for  a  moment,  ere 
he  entered  the  domains  of  that  ancient  empire,  known  to  philosophers  and 
poets  as  the  Land  of  Nod. 

Rousing  himself  for  a  moment,  he  exclaimed,  in  a  sleepy  tone,  "Sam 
I  say  !    Where  are  you,  you  blind  devil  ?" 

In  answer  to  this  bland  inquiry,  a  voice  was  heard — 

"I'se  here,  Massa.  I  is,"  and,  starting  from  a  nook  of  the  arbor  over- 
shadowed by  foliage,  the  blind  Negro  appeared  in  the  light,  his  sightless 
eyeballs  rolling  in  their  sockets. 

"  Fill  my  glass  and  fix  my  pipe,  or — or — " 

The  good  Peter  Dorfner  was  fast  asleep.  With  his  head  resting  on 
one  shoulder,  and  his  gouty  hands  placed  on  his  paunch,  he  had  dropped 
into  the  land  of  dreams.  Corpulent  dreams,  no  doubt,  blooming  in  fat- 
ness, with  pipes  between  their  lips,  and  beakers  of  rum-punch  in  their 
hands. 

Black  Sam,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  coarse  gray  homespun,  stood  behind 
his  master's  chair,  listening  with  great  earnestness,  while  his  forehead 
became  corrugated  with  innumerable  wrinkles,  his  thick  lips  were 
distorted  in  a  grin,  and  his  eyeballs  rolled  unceasingly  in  their  sockets. 

"Are  yo'  'sleep,  Massa?"  he  whispered — then  listened  for  a  moment — 
"He  am  'sleep,  by  gum,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  that  was  scarcely  audible. 

Then,  raising  his  black  hands,  seamed  with  scars  and  knotted  in  the 
joints,  above  the  white  hairs  of  the  sleeping  old  man,  Black  Sam  stood 
for  a  moment  with  his  sightless  eyeballs  lifted  toward  Heaven.  An 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


225 


expression  as  sudden  as  it  was  frightful  came  over  his  face  ;  that  visage, ' 
black  as  soot,  contrasted  with  the  hair,  which,  frosted  by  age,  resembled 
1    white  wool,  was  in  truth  most  horrible  to  behold.    Clenching  his  knotted 
fingers,  the  negro  uttered  certain  words,  not  in  broken  English,  but  in 
some  unknown  tongue,  perchance  the  language  of  his  clime  and  race. 

The  good  Peter  Dorfner  snored  in  his  slumber  ;  a  substantial  snore, 
which,  had  it  taken  a  form  to  itself,  might  certainly  have  appeared  in  the 
shape  of  a  full-blown  poppy,  overcome  with  liquor  and  tired  for  want  of 
sleep.  In  his  corpulent  slumber,  lulled  by  obese  dreams,  with  pipes  in 
their  lips  and  mugs  of  rum  in  their  hands,  the  convivial  Peter  did  not  for 
a  moment  chance  to  think  of  the  black  visage  which  scowled  above  him, 
while  lips  distorted  by  rage  muttered  vengeance  upon  his  head. 

"  Punch — don't  know  how  to  make  punch  ?"  Peter  murmured  in  his 
sleep,  with  a  chuckle  that  seemed  choked  to  death,  while  on  its  way  from 
his  chest  to  his  lips.  "  Some  first-rate  whiskey — Irish,  if  you  can  get  it 
— -a  sp^ce  of  lemon  peel — a — a — " 

Peter  ended  the  injunction  with  a  snore,  while  the  negro  cautiously 
placed  one  hand  upon  the  breast  of  the  sleeping  man,  and  with  the  other 
brandished  a  common  table-knife,  sharpened  to  a  point. 

Again  those  words  in  the  unknown  tongue,  accompanied  by  the 
hideous  cortortion,'  and  then  the  Negro  muttered  in  broken  English — 

"  For  sixteen  —  seventeen  year,  dis  nigga  watch  his  time.  Sometime 
ho  tink  he  put  pisen  in  yo'  drink.  Sometime  come  to  yo'  bed  an'  choke 
yo'  in  yo'  dam  sleep.    Now  he  no  fail  !" 

How  lightly  that  brawny  left  hand  touched  the  breast  of  the  slumbering 
man,  as  if  to  mark  the  point  of  the  intended  blow,  while  the  knife, 
clenched  in  the  uplifted  right  hand,  shone  with  its  sharpened  point  over 
the  old  man's  head  ! 

Certainly  the  negro  was  a  maniac  ;  a  poor  wretch,  deprived  of  sight 
and  reason.  Else  wherefore  should  he  wish  to  stab  the  good  old  man 
who  had  fed  him  at  his  table,  and  given  him  to  drink  of  his  cup,  for  so 
many  years  ?  Perchance  some  memory  of  a  petty  slight,  received  long 
years  before,  nerved  the  negro's  arm  ;  it  may  have  been  that  the  b/ind 
man  had  been  stolen  from  Africa,  and  cherished  a  mad  resentment  against 
every  member  of  the  white  race. 

The  knife  glittered  faintly  in  the  negro's  grasp,  as,  hidden  by  the 
foliage  of  the  arbor,  he  silently  prepared  himself  for  his  work  of  murder. 

"  Sam  kin  feel  yo'  heart,  ole  boy — dere's  for  de  white  woman  and  de 
little  chile— dere— ^ 

The  knife  descended,  urged  by  an  arm  that  was  nerved  by  madness — 
perchance  by  revenge. 

"Wait  a  minute,  my  dark  friend,  and  you  may  kill  him  at  your  leisure," 
said  a  bland  voice. 

The  negro  could  not  see,  but  he  felt  that  a  third  person  was  present  at 

15 


226  .  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

this  scene;  he  was  seized  with  an  ague-like  tremor;  the  knife  fell  from 
his  hand.  He  sank  on  the  gravel  which  formed  the  floor  of  the  arbor, 
and,  in  a  whispering  tone,  begged  for  mercy. 

"By  gum,  dis  nigga  no  'tend  to  hurt  Massa  Dorfen  one  little  hair! 
Dat  am  trut,  so  it  am — Massa!  Massa!   Don't  hurt  ole  Sam — " 

"Will  you  be  still,  my  dear  charcoal?   Will  you  stop  your  cursed  hul 
labaloo?    Or  shall  I  just  put  a  pistol  to  your  head,  and  blow  you  into 
several  pieces?" 

The  poor  wretch,  cowering  on  the  gravel,  heard  the  bland  voice,  felt 
the  cold  muzzle  of  the  pistol  pressing  against  his  temple,  and  then  mut- 
tered faintly — "  Kill  de  nigga,  but  don't  wake  de  old  boy!" 

The  voice  of  the  unknown  was  heard  again,  rising  into  a  jovial  shout — 

"  Dorfner,  I  say !  Hello,  man,  is  this  the  way  you  treat  your  friends — 
stir  yourself,  or  I'll  drink  your  liquor  and  stick  the  neck  of  an  empty 
bottle  in  your  yawning  jaws.    Dorfner,  I  say!" 

Started  by  the  clamor,  Peter  unclosed  his  eyes,  and  looked  around  with 
the  peculiarly  vacant  glance  of  a  corpulent  gentleman  aroused* from  a 
pleasant  slumber. 

"Good  morning,  friend,"  he  slowly  said — "Why,  what  in  the  d — 1 
have  we  here  ?" 

Peter  removed  his  feet  from  the  table,  started  erect  in  his  chair,  and 
looked  in  the  face  of  the  intruder  with  an  expression  of  ludicrous  surprise. 

It  was  a  very  grave,  sober-looking  gentleman  who  stood  before  him, 
with  his  back  to  the  afternoon  sun,  and  his  head  and  shoulders  relieved 
by  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  sky,  smiling  beyond  the  distant  woods.  A  very 
grave,  sedate  personage,  indeed,  dressed  in  black  cloth  from  head  to  foot, 
with  cravat  and  ruffles  of  inexpressible  whiteness,  and  silver  buckles  about 
the  knees  and  feet. 

It  is  true  that  this  sombre  costume  gave  a  somewhat  singular  boldness 
to  the  marked  outline  of  his  figure,  which  in  the  body  resembled  a  barrel, 
and  in  the  lower  limbs  suggested  the  idea  of  bean-poles,  or  something 
excessively  lank  and  thin,  supporting  something  particularly  round 
and  fat. 

Beneath  the  black  hat  which  the  stranger  wore,  appeared  or  rather 
shone  a  very  sober  countenance,  with  eyes  like  minute  points  of  glass, 
sparkling  in  a  flame,  cheeks  red  as  Etna,  a  little  nose  that  could  hardly 
be  called  a  nose,  and  a  mouth  which  threatened  every  move  to  invade  the 
ears  and  take  possession  of  the  back  part  of  the  head. 

It  was  a  marked  face,  no  doubt,  and,  notwithstanding  its  demure  expres- 
sion, was  well  calculated  to  excite  tears  of — laughter. 

"Peter,"  said  the  stranger,  quite  blandly,  as,  with  his  large  right  hand, 
half-concealed  by  an  enormous  ruffle,  he  described  a  circle  in  the  air — 
"  Peter,  my  friend,  allow  me  to  subside  into  a  little  decorous  emotion  on 
this  interesting  occasion.    It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  you,  Peter 


/ 

THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  227 

—  it  seems  a  trifling  matter  of  some  nine  or  ten  centuries.  But  we  grow 
old,  my  boy — we  grow  old — it  was  the  remark  of  an  ancient  sage,  no  less 
renowned  for  the  majesty  of  his  head,  than  the  strength  of  his  heart, — it 
was  his  remark,  Peter— and  it  shows  an  expansive  thought,  my  boy, — 
that — that — shall  I  repeat  the  remark,,  my  dear  Peter?" 

The  old  man  passed  his  hands  over  his  white  beard,  thrust  his  fingers 
in  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  twitched  at  his  gaiters,  and  shook  his  fat  frame, 
like  a  frolicsome  dog,  who  has  been  indulging  in  a  bath. 

"Am  I  awake,  or  am  I  dreamin'  ?  Sam  !  I  say,  Sam  !  come  here,  you 
scoundrel,  and  let  me  pinch  you,  so  that  I  may  know  whether  I  am  asleep 
or  not.    S-a-m !" 

But  Sam  did  not  .  appear — crouching  behind  the  oaken  chair  of  his 
master,  he  wished  to  seclude  himself  from  public  view,  with  a  modesty 
worthy  of  an  ancient  hermit. 

"Shall  I  repeat  the  remark,  Peter?"  continued  the  stranger,  bowing 
profoundly. 

"  In  the  first  place, — "  grunted  Dorfner — "You'll  be  so  kind  as  to  tell 
us  who  you  are,  and  what  you  want,  and  then  take  yourself  off,  as  quick 
as  your  legs  will  carry  you.    You  have  legs-reh?" 

The  old  fellow  smiled  like  a  blustery  March  day,  relenting  all  at  once 
into  the  First  of  April.  By  no  means  discomposed,  the  stranger  placed  his 
hand  upon  his  breast,  lowered  his  head,  and  stood  for  a  moment  in  an 
attitude  of  profound  meditation. 

"To  think  of  an  event  and  a  day  like  this!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone 
whose  shrillness  reminded  one  of  the  voice  of  some  demure  spinster,  who, 
having  refused  fifty-one  offers  of  marriage,  has  settled  down  at  last,  into 
the  Censor  of  a  small  neighborhood — •«  Here  I  am  after  a  long  absence, 
and  there  is  Peter!  I  have  thought  of  the  blessed  meeting — dreamed  of 
it!  I  come  at  last;  I  see  him — not  encompassed  by  the  cares  of  the  world, 
but  sitting  in  an  arbor,  with  a  white  beard  and  a  bottle  of  rum,  and  five 
strapping  fellows  mowin'  hay  in  the  distance.  It  is  thus  I  see  him — 
— thus — regaled  by  the  combined  fragrance  of  new-mown  hay  and  black 
strap,  and  he  does  not  know  me !" 

The  poor  fellow  was  lost  in  grief.  Burying  his  face  in  his  large  hands, 
he  stood  opposite  the  astonished  Peter,  a  picture  of  despair. 

"Sam,  S-a-m,  I  say!  You  black  rascal,  come  here  and  tell  me,  in  the 
name  of  Satan,  who  is  this  fellow?" 

"He  don't  know  me  yet,"  soliloquized  the  stranger,  rubbing  the  tip  of 
his  nose  with  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  — "  Cast  your  eyes  through 
the  dim  vistas  of  memory,  and  call  to  mind  that  touching  night,  when  we 
all  got  drunk  together — Will  you,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Why,  it  is — Jacopo!"  ejaculated  Dorfner,  with  eyes  like  saucers. 

"  Jacopo  ?  That  was  my  name,  my  love.  Your  venerable  exterior  serves 
to  remind  me  of  it — painfully.    But  now,  since  I  have  taken  orders,  and 


228  .  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

been  commissioned  by  an  Archbishop  or  two,  to  wear  a  gown,  I  am  called 
the  Reverend  Jacob  James." 

"  You  wear  a  gown  !  you  preach !  Ho,  ho,  ho — I  should  like  to  hear  you. 
Git  up  on  that  bench  and  give  us  a  slice  o'  divinity,  will  you?" 

Jacopo,  or  the  Reverend  Jacob  James,  as  he  now  designates  himself, 
took  a  seat  on  the  bench  near  the  chair  of  the  old  man,  and  in  affecting 
silence  proceeded  to  fill  a  glass  with  a  great  deal  of  rum  and  a  very  small 
portion  of  water.  After  which  he  drank  the  mixture  with  a  sigh  of  calm 
delight. 

"How  is  it  with  you,  old  boy?"  He  slapped  Mr.  Dormer  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  Purty  well,  I  thank  you, — how's  yourself?" 

"Poorly  —  poo-r-ly,"  sighed  Jacopo,  filling  a  pipe,  and  striking  a  light 
from  a  tinder-box,  which  stood  among  the  bottles  — "  My  labors  for  the 
regeneration  of  my  species,  and  so  on,  have  struck  into  my  pulmonaries. 
Don't  you  see  how  thin  I  am  ?" 

The  old  man  struggled  with  a  fit  of  laughter,  which  seemed  determined 
to  choke  him  to  death.  The  wide  mouth,  little  nose,  diminutive  eyes  and 
red  cheeks  of  Jacopo,  all  subdued  by  an  expression  of  exemplary 
sobriety,  contrasted  somewhat  ludricrously  with  his  rotund  form  and 
spider  legs. 

"Droll  as  ever,"  laughed  old  Peter — "You'll  be  the  death  o'  me,  you 
dog.  Where  have  you  been  these  two  years,  and — "  Peter  glanced  stealthily 
around  the  arbor — "Where's  your  master — John — eh?" 

"I  have  discharged  him.  He  did  not  suit  me,"  replied  Jacopo,  elabo- 
rating another  glass  of  rum  and  water.  "  By-the-bye,  how  do  things  go 
with  you  ?  It's  now  a  matter  of  two  years  and  six  months  since  we 
parted.  What's  the  matter— hey?  Your  house  shut  up  like  a  tomb? 
Where's  the  little  girl — Madeline — Hello !  the  old  man's  choking  to 
death,  with  a  gallopin'  consumption — " 

The  cheerful  visage  of  the  benevolent  Peter  grew  pale  and  then  deep 
purple;  his  eyes  were  fixed,  and  indeed  his  changed  countenance  mani- 
fested various  indications  of  an  apoplectic  fit. 

Jacopo  revived  him  by  a  copious  bath  of  rum  and  water,  dashed 
violently  in  his  face.  It  was  some  moments,  however,  before  the  good 
man  revived. 

"  Sich  a  pain  as  I  had  — sich  a  stitch  in  my  side — ugh  !  I  feel  quite  cold. 
Mix  me  a  leetle  rum  and  light  me  a  pipe,  will  you?" 

Jacopo  obeyed.  With  a  tenderness  that  was  quite  filial,  he  prepared  the 
draught  and  the  pipe.  The  old  man's  white  beard  was  presently  obscured 
by  a  veil  of  tobacco  smoke. 

"  You  asked  after  Madeline,"  he  said,  quite  calmly,  with  his  eyes 
twinkling  from  the  half-closed  lids — "  We  never  heard  of  her  since  that 
night.    There  was  blood  upon  the  floor,  but  that  was  all." 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHI£ON.  229 

"And  the  hunter — Tom,  I  think  they  called  him?" 

"  Gilbert, — Gilbert — never  heard  o'  him  nayther,"  mumbled  Peter,  with- 
out removing  the  pipe  from  his  lips. 

"  You  don't  say!  A  girl  and  a  boy  disappear  on  one  night — it  looks  as 
if  they  went  off  together — " 

"  Or  as  if  he  took  her  off  and  then  made  tracks  himself — "  suggested 
Dorfner,  with  a  singular  twinkle  in  his  half-shut  eyes. 

"How's  matters  about  here  just  now,  anyhow  ?  Eh?  King  or  Country  ? 
Which  way  do  you  drink?" 

"  That  is  a  ticklish  question.  There's  a  great  deal  to  be  said  on  both 
sides,  but  I  s'pose  you  won't  object  to  fill  a  glass  to  His  Majesty,  God 
bless  him!" 

The  good  old  man  lifted  his  hand  as  if  to  raise  his  hat  from  his  head, 
but  finding  nothing  like  a  hat,  he  apologized  by  raising  the  glass  to 
his  lips. 

"King,  God  bless  him,"  cried  Jacopo,  "or,  Continental  Congress — I 
don't  care  a  tuppence  which." 

"  Hey?  what  kind  of  man  are  you,  anyhow?   A — " 

— "  Man  just  like  yourself,  fond  of  peace  and  plenty,  quietness  and 
tobacco,  sound  principles  and  Jamaica  rum.  Tut — tut,  Peter.  Why 
should  you  and  I  quarrel  about  these  trifling  things  ?  What  difference 
does  it  make  to  us,  whether  we  have  a  King  George  or  a  King  Wash- 
ington?" 

Jacopo  winked  rather  familiarly  at  the  old  man,  and  placing  his  spindle- 
shanks  upon  the  table,  leaned  against  the  frame-work  of  the  arbor,  while 
each  corner  of  his  extensive  mouth  emitted  a  cloud  of  bluish  smoke. 
Dorfner  regarded  him  with  half-shut  eyes,  and  yet  with  a  look  of  search- 
ing scrutiny.  Two  years  had  not  indeed  given  more  wrinkles  to  the  bluff 
countenance  of  the  old  man,  or  stolen  a  solitary  tint  from  his  blooming 
cheeks,  but  his  intellect  seemed  impaired,  his  memory  confused  and  dim. 
Even  as  he  gazed  sidelong  into  the  complacent  visage  of  Jacopo,  he  mur- 
mured-r"  Queer  fellow — queer  !  Where  have  I  seen  him  ?  Odd — droll 
— queer !" 

"  That  was  quite  a  touching  incident,"  exclaimed  Jacopo,  after  a  long 
pause — "It  melted  me.    I  was  all  brandy  and  tears." 

"What  are  you  drivin'  at?"  cried  Peter,  still  eyeing  his  eccentric 
companion. 

"  It  was  so  very  affecting.  It  worked  upon  me  like  peppered  brandy. 
It  seemed  to  touch  you  a  little— just  a  little — " 

Jacopo  uttered  these  words  without  the  slightest  change  in  the  grotesque 
complacency  of  his  face  ;  his  feet  were  on  the  table,  the  pipe  between  his 
lips,  and  the  glass  of  rum  in  his  hand. 

Peter  opened  his  eyes.    He  regarded  his  friend  with  a  wild  stare. 

"You  were  saying  something,  but  whether  my  head  is  thick,  or 


230  ^PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

whether  you  are  drunk,  I  cannot  telL  Speak  out,  will  you — and  if  it's  all 
the  same  to  you,  speak  it  in  English — " 

"  Why,  Peter,"  said  Jacopo,  eyeing  with  calm  satisfaction  a  puff  of 
smoke  which  floated  slowly  upward  toward  the  fragrant  ceiling  of  the 
arbor — "I  was  just  thinking  of  the  poor  girl — Amelia  Caroline,  I  think  you 
call  her  ?" 

"  Madeline,"  said  the  old  man  rather  sharply. 

"Madeline:  that's  it.  (Do  you  observe  that  cloud  of  smoke?  how  much 
it  looks  like  his  blessed  Majesty — there's  his  nose)— Madeline.  That's 
the  name.  What  a  scene  when  she  woke  from  her  faintin'  fit  on  that 
night!    I  never  could  get  her  words  out  of  my  mind — could  you,  Peter  ?" 

"  What  words 

The  old  man  laid  his  pipe  on  the  table,  and  rested  his  cheeks  between 
his  hands,  his  eyes  growing  brighter  and  larger  as  he  gazed  steadily  into 
the  face  of  the  immovable  Jacopo. 

"Just  watch  that  puff,  will  you?  Did  ever  you  see  sich  a  capital 
Turk's  head — the  nose  is  perfect!  —  Oh,  as  to  the  girl's  words,  I  can't  of 
course  remember  them,  but  you  know,  that  she  said  something  about  her 
mother  being  put  out  of  the  way,  some  eighteen  years  before  " 

*  The  d  1  she  did  !"  Peter's  lips  parted,  disclosing  his  white  teeth 

set  firmly  together. 

"  Can't  you  call  to  mind  ?  Peter,  you  are  dull.  How  her  mother  was 
brought  to  the  farm-house  of  Wissahikon,  and  4  while  in  the  pains  of  a 
mother's  anguish — '  You  remember,  Peter?" 

Jacopo  did  not  cast  his  gaze  toward  the  face  of  the  old  man ;  indeed  he 
seemed  to  avoid  his  glance.  But,  had  he  looked  into  that  face,  he  would 
have  encountered  an  expression  of  ferocity,  such  as  is  not  oftentime 
coupled  with  venerable  hair  and  white  beard. 

The  old  man  did  not  speak  a  word  in  reply,  but  sank  back  into  his 
chair  and  closed  his  eyes. 

After  a  moment,  Jacopo  ventured  to  turn  his  gaze — ventured,  we  say, 
for  he  seemed  conscious  that  he  was  provoking  the  rage  of  a  man  who 
was  neither  to  be  trusted  nor  despised. 

"There  he  sits,  like  a  venerable  Pope,  fast  asleep  among  seventeen 
Cardinals.  It  is  a  glorious  picture  !  0  for  the  pencil  of  a  Vandyke,  a 
Godfrey  Kneller,  or  a  Michael  Angelo,  to  sketch  that  nose,  and  make  that 
beard  eternal  in  white  paint  and  canvass  !  What  a  dear  old  man  he  is, 
after  all — such,  traits  of  virtue  amid  his  fatness,  such  streaks  of  worth 
amid  his  ripeness  !" 

With  ejaculations  such  as  these,  Jacopo  watched  the  slumbering  man, 
murmuring  now  and  then  in  an  undertone — "  What  a  perfect  old  devil — 
shouldn't  wonder' if  he  had  a  hoof  and  two  claws." 

«  The  dear  old  'possum  !"  he  resumed  in  a  loud  voice — "  He  thinks 
he'll  make  believe  to  be  fast  asleep,  so  that  I  can  drink  his  liquor  at  my 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  231 

I 

leisure,  without  shocking  the  delicate  modesty  of  my  nature.  Good  man! 
But  no — he  is  asleep — ah,  that  snore — a  snore  that  seems  to  sit  in  his 
nose  like  a  monk  in  a  cloister,  and  sings  hoarse  anthems  in  praise  of  fat- 
ness— Peter,  I  say  !    Wake  up  and  drink,  will  you  ?" 

The  corpulent  Peter  unclosed  his  eyes. 

"You  there  yet  ?"  he  said,  in  a  gruff  tone. 

"  Did  you  think  I'd  leave  you  ?  Why,  I  mean  to  stay  all  night  with 
you,  and  we'll  have  a  good  time  together,  and  then  to-morrow  you  may 
over -'persuade  me  to  stay  for  a  few  days  more.  I  am  of  an  obliging  dis- 
position. When  I  was  in  Italy,  the  Pope  remarked  in  the  most  delicate 
manner,  '  My  dear  Jack,'  says  he — we  were  taking  a  few  bottles 
together  in  a  private  chamber  in  the  Vatican — 'My  dear  Jack — '  says  he 
— for  he  called  me  Jack  for  short — " 

The  remark  uttered  by  the  Pope  to  his  friend  Jack,  while  taking  a  few- 
bottles  of  wine  together,  was  no  doubt  very  beautiful,  but  it  is  lost  in 
hopeless  oblivion.  For  as  Jacopo,  calmly  puffing  his  pipe,  was  about  to 
repeat  the  said  remark,  for  the  gratification  of  his  friend  Peter,  the  good 
old  man,  with  an  abrupt  exclamation,  bearing  some  resemblance  to  an  oath, 
broke  his  pipe,  and  wished  Jacopo  and  the  Pope  to  the — end  of  the 
world.  He  did  not  say  1  end  of  the  world,'  it  is  true,  for  he  named  a  dark 
personage  who  commits  all  the  sin  in  the  universe,  leaving  poor  mortality 
scathless  and  innocent. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  you  mean  by  makin'  fun  o'  me  ?"  continued 
Peter — 11  Tellin'  me  these  cock-and-bull  stories,  and  fillin'  yourself  with 
the  idea- that  I'm  a-goin'  to  invite  you  to  take  up  your  abode  in  my  house. 
Why — Mister  What's-your-name,  J  don't  know  you.11 

This  was  to  the  point.  Had  you  seen  the  old  man's  face  flushing  with 
anger  from  his  white  beard  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  while  his  clenched 
hand  descended  heavily  upon  the  table,  you  would  have  realized  the  full 
force  of  his  words. 

Jacopo  smoked  away,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  nor  down 
his  nose,  but  straight  forward,  his  whole  attention  riveted  by  the  fragrant 
clouds  which  floated  around  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?"  thundered  the  old  man,  "  I  say  your  room  is  better 
than  your  company.    Tramp  !" 

"Peter,"  said  Jacopo  very  mildly,  without  turning  his  head — "Your 
insinuations  are  indelicate.  A  stranger  listening  to  us,  and  ignorant  of 
our  sworn  friendship,  might  draw  unfavorable  inferences  from  your 
sly  hints." 

The  good  Peter  Dorfner  could  not  believe  his  eyes  or  trust  his  ears. 
To  be  bearded  at  his  own  table,  and  in  riis  own  arbor,  over  his  own 
liquor,  by  a  man  whose  body  resembled  a  barrel  supported  by  broom- 
sticks ! 

There  were  strange  rumors  among  the  country  folks  in  regard  to  Peter 


232 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


He  was  either  a  basely  slandered,  or  much  mistaken  man.  His  temper 
was  ferocious  ;  the  source  of  his  wealth  mysterious;  few  of  the  neighbors 
came  any  longer  to  his  farm-house,  and  even  the  men  who  worked  for 
him,  regarded  the  good  old  man  with  an  indefinable  fear.  Had  he  not 
turned  law,  divinity  and  physic  into  ridicule,  by  beguiling  Lawyer  Sim- 
mons, Doctor  Perkenpine  and  a  grave  Parson  into  a  supper  of  barbecued 
— cats  ?  Every  farm-house  of  the  Wissahikon  was  full  of  the  Legend, 
and  even  the  firesides  of  Germantown  grew  pale  at  the  idea.  Mingled 
with  this  grave  matter,  there  was  a  trifling  suspicion  of  Murder  hanging 
around  the  history  of  the  benevolent  man. 

Peter  was  somewhat  proud  of  his  reputation  ;  even  as  some  distin- 
guished literary  gentleman  of  the  modern  day,  is  delighted  at  being  com- 
pared to  a  certain  animal, — called  pork  !  when  it  is  dead — so  the  good 
old  man  grew  merry  at  the  epithets — "  Beast  and  Bear  !" 

You  may  therefore  imagine  the  amazement,  the  indignation  struggling 
into  life  on  Peter's  face,  when  he  beheld  himself  defied  and  insulted  by 
the  sublime  impertinence  of  Jacopo. 

"Sly  hints,  indeed!"  he  exclaimed,  panting  for  breath  as  his  visage 
grew  purple  with  rage.    "  Shall  1  kick  you  all  over  my  farm  ?" 

Jacopo  smoked  in  silence,  glancing  meanwhile  at  a  piece  of  printed 
paper  which  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket.  It  looked  like  the  fragment 
of  an  old  newspaper,  and  was  somewhat  triangular  in  form.  A  singular 
grimace  agitated  Jacopo's  face  as  he  perused  the  irregular  sentences  and 
broken  words,  which  appeared  upon  this  dingy  relic  : 

was 

cealed    in    a  closet, 
looks   out   upon  a  large 
rfner,    with    the  Corpse,  also 
rchments  and   papers,  which 
lead    to    some    knowledge  of  the 
the    poor    victim.      This    all  occu 
Twenty-third  of  November,  1756;  and  in  ma 
this  confession,  I  ask  forgiveness  of  mankind  for 
share  in  this  detestable  Crime,  and  Pray  the  L 

Such  was  the  fragment,  on  which  Jacopo  gazed  with  great  satisfaction, 
his  eyes  twinkling  with  an  expression  of  quiet  malice,  while  his  enor- 
mous mouth  displayed  its  full  magnitude  in  a  hideous  grin. 

"  Now  that  looks  very  much  like  nonsense,  and  it's  but  a  dirty  piece 
of  an  old  newspaper  after  all,"  Jacopo  murmured,  without  removing  the 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  "  and  yet  there  may  exist,  somewhere  in  the  world, 
another  piece  of  paper,— newspaper  too — which,  attached  to  this,  would 
make  it  read  quite  sensibly.  By-the-bye,  friend  Peter,  did  you  ever  hear 
of  a  Philadelphia  merchant  named  Hopkins  ?" 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


233 


The  last  words  addressed  to  Dorfner  only  elicited  an  oath,  coupled 
with  the  words — 

¥  The  scoundrel  !  He  was  here  some  time,  years  ago,  prying  into  my 
affairs,  and  wanting  to  know  what  had  become  of  Madeline.  The  dog ! 
Will  you  travel,  sirrah  ?" 

Jacopo  rose  from  his  seat,  and  carefully  placed  his  pipe  upon  the  table. 
Then  looking  into  Peter's  face,  which,  purpled  by  rage,  glared  in  a  ray  of 
sunshine,  Jacopo  placed  his  hand  within  the  breast  of  his  waistcoat. 

"Do  you  see  this  little  bit.  o'  convenience?  A  pistol,  nothing  but  a 
pistol,  mounted  in  silver  and  loaded  with  ball.  I  am  a  great  coward, 
Peter — you  can  see  me  tremble,  if  you  look  sharp.  So  I  carry  this  trifle, 
and  another  trifle  like  it,  for  I  am  told  that  you  are  afflicted  with  mad 
dogs  on  the  Wissahikon. 

Jacopo  spoke  the  truth.  He  was  a  coward — a  pitiable  coward,  afraid 
of  the  report  of  a  pistol,  frightened  at  the  smell  of  burnt  powder.  Yet, 
on  the  present  occasion,  nerved  by  an  inexplicable  influence  into  some- 
thing like  courage,  he  dared  to  confront  the  irritable  old  man,  and  defy 
him  on  his  own  ground. 

"  Sam,  I  say, — where's  that  nigger  ?  Sam,  go  into  the  farm-house  and 
bring  me  my  pistols." 

There  was  a  deadly  light  in  the  old  man's  gray  eye— his  lips  were 
violently  agitated.  But  the  blind  negro  did  not  appear,  and  Dorfner, 
purple  with  rage,  and  unable,  from  a  delicate  twinge  of  gout,  to  move  with 
his  accustomed  vigor,  was  left  exposed  to  the  round  face,  wide  mouth  and 
impertinent  eyes  of  the  intruder. 

ff  Your  impertinence  is  only  a  cloak,  by  *  *  *  !"  thundered  the  old 
man — "You  have  some  deeper  motive  

As  if  conscious  that  he  had  said  too  much,  old  Peter  suddenly  halted, 
took  up  his  pipe  and  began  to  smoke  again.  The  hand  which  held  the 
pipe  trembled  like  a  leaf. 

Jacopo  resumed  his  seat.  Amid  all  his  bravado,  there  was  delicately 
perceptible  an  inexhaustible  endowment  of  cowardice.  Once  or  twice 
he  shuddered  as  his  eye  rested  upon  the  inflamed  visage  of  Dorfner,  but, 
disguising  all  marked  indications  of  emotion,  he  silently  examined  his 
pistols. 

"Ha,  ha — "  a  hearty  laugh  almost  frightened  Jacopo  from  his  seat— 
"Ha,  ha,  my  boy,  did  you  think  to  make  the  old  boy  mad  with  you? 
Capitally  done,  by  *  *  *  !  But  you  did  not  succeed,  ha,  ha,  ha !  You 
shall  stay  all  the  night  with  me,  and  we'll  have  a  good  time  o't  together. 
You  and  me  only,  my  good  fellow,  for  I  don't  care  about  the  company  of 
the  neighbors.  I'll  brew  you  a  punch,  an  old-fashioned  punch,  and  you 
will  sing  and  fiddle,  and  we'll  go  reeling  to  our  beds — ho,  ho,  my 
boy!  you  don't  know  old  Peter  yet!" 

Had  the  table  taken  wings  and  flown  through  the  top  of  the  arbor, 


234  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

Jacopo  could  not  have  been  half  so  much  confounded  as  he  was  now,  by 
the  sudden  hilarity,  the  extemporaneous  good-fellowship  of  the  old  man. 

"We  will,  old  boy,  we  will !"  he  shrilly  shouted,  as  soon  as  he  could 
command  the  power  of  speech — "A  night  of  it  together — that's  the  word! 
I'll  drink  to  your  white  beard,  and  you  will  drink  to  my  legs,  and — "  he 
added  in  a  tone  inaudible  to  Peter— "I'll  take  good  care  that  you  don't 
put  medicine  in  my  liquor,  or  steel  to  my  throat." 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ; — these  two  years  and  six 
months?"  kindly  inquired  Dorfner. 

"Engaged  on  business  of  state,"  responded  Jacopo — "Settling  a  little 
difficulty  between  my  friend  the  Pope  and  the  Emperor  of  Germany. 
But  let  me  ask  a  question  in  return — how  have  you  been  all  tjiis  while  ? 
Any  news  stirring  about  the  region?    The  old  Wizard  alive  yet?" 

"Gone  these  two  years.  His  house  is  shut  up — nobody  at  home. 
Supposed  by  some — ha,  ha — that  he  is  gone  to  his  Master — ho,  ho!" 

It  was  a  lame  jest,  and  yet  the  fat  old  fellow  laughed  heartily,  until  his 
broad  paunch  and  white  beard  shook  in  sympathy. 

"Then  there  was  a  queer  body,  whom  you  all  feared — how's  this 
they  called  him?    Paul — Paul — Birmingham  —  was  that  the  name?" 

"Paul  Ardenheim,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  sudden  and  marked  change 
of  voice — "  He  has  never  been  seen  on  the  Wissahikon,  since  the  last 
night  of  Seventy-four." 

"Had  he  no  family]  Was  not  there  an  old  house,  castle  or  monastery, 
somewhere  up  here,  among  the  woods  ?  The  young  man  had  a  father  ; 
a  sister :  do  tell  us  all  about  him  !" 

" We  never  mention  those  people"  said  Dorfner,  glancing  over  his 
shoulder  with  an  uneasy  gesture — "  I  don't  believe  much  in  devils,  but 
it's  not  safe  to  trifle  with  such  matters.  Nobody  about  Wissahikon 
speaks  of  him — that  is,  you  know,  Paul — or  of  his  people — " 

"  But  the  monastery,  or  castle,  or  what  in  the  deuce  do  you  call  it '?" 

"I'll  not  call  it  any  thing  just  now.    Talk  about  something  else." 

"You  don't  believe  in  devils  ?  My  dear  old  boy,  don't  you  know  that 
it's  impossible  to  doubt  the  existence  of  a  Devil?  You  may  not  believe 
in  a  God,  but  as  to  a  Devil — human  nature  could  not  get  along  without 
one.    I  believe  in  Devils.    Pity  the  poor  devil  who  don't." 

As  he  said  this,  Jacopo  drew  once  more  from  his  pocket  the  fragment 
of  printed  paper,  which  we  have  given  to  the  reader,  and  glanced  over  it 
with  a  peculiar  grimace,  muttering  with  a  chuckle — "  Hopkins  is  a  mer- 
chant, but  he  is  sharp,  dev'lish  sharp  !  Twenty-third  of  November,  fifty- 
six  those  kind  o'  dates  are  like  Devils.    I  believe  in  'em." 

"What's  that?"  cried  Dorfner — "Where  did  you  get  that  slip  of  paper? 
It  is  mine — I'll  swear  it !" 

He  started  from  his  chair,  reached  over  the  table,  and  attempted  to 
grasp  the  fragment.    His  features  were  agitated  by  a  mingled  expression, 


f 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  235 

which  Jacopo  could  not  altogether  comprehend.  It  was  not  fear,  it  was 
not  rage,  but  seemed  like  fear  and  anger,  struggling  with  a  darker 
emotion. 

"  I  was  going  to  light  my  pipe  with  it,"  said  Jacopo,  very  quietly — "  I 
picked  it  up  near  the  garden-gate.  Take  it,  my  old  boy.  By-the-bye, 
what  does  that  Twenty-Third  of  November,  4  fifty-six,'  mean  ?  Day  of 
your  birth,  I  suppose  ;  and  yet  you  look  older  than  twenty-one." 

Peter  took  the  paper,  and  pressed  it  against  the  table  with  his  thumb, 
at  the  same  time  drawing  from  a  pocket  another  fragment,  which  fitted  it 
with  great  nicety,  thus  producing  the  appearance  of  one  piece  of  paper, 
square  in  form,  and  filled  with  the  same  printed  characters. 

Jacopo  would  have  given  the  richest  tint  on  his  infinitesmal  nose  for  the 
privilege  of  perusing  this  second  fragment,  which  was  evidently  a  part  of 
the  first.  He  beheld  Dorfner  gazing  upon  it,  with  his  eyes  downcast, 
and  his  head  bent  upon  his  broad  chest — he  saw  the  fingers  of  the  old 
man  shake  with  an  irrepressible  tremor.  Rising  from  his  seat,  he  glided 
with  a  noiseless  footstep  to  the  side  of  his  aged  companion,  and  looked 
stealthily  over  his  shoulder. 

His  small  eyes  dilated  as  he  beheld  the  printed  characters,  and  he 
could  not  repress  an  ejaculation  which  his  surprise  forced  to  his  lips. 


CHAPTER  SECOND. 

THE  FACE  AND  THE  SHADOW. 

"Hah  !  The  two  pieces  form  one  paragraph— it  reads  quite  sensibly, 
I  vow !" 

But  the  next  moment  he  sank  back,  affrighted  and  trembling.  The  old 
man,  startled  by  his  ejaculations,  had  raised  his  head  ;  his  face  was  turned 
over  his  shoulder,  and  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  visage  of  Jacopo.  The 
veins  stood  boldly  out  upon  that  forehead ;  the  cheeks,  at  other  times 
flushed  by  the  tints  of  good  liquor,  were  now  pale — almost  livid.  There 
was  mischief  in  the  expression  of  the  old  man's  lips,  and  a  quiet  ferocity 
in  his  gaze. 

"Who  told  you  to  look  over  my  shoulder?" 

The  good  Peter  did  not  swear;  his  tone  was  very  even  and  subdued, 
and  therefore  Jacopo  felt  that  there  was  danger  in  his  eye.  Confused, 


236  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

afraid,  without-  the  power  to  frame  an  answer,  he  stood  trembling  before 
the  gaze  of  Peter  Dormer. 

Jacopo  was  a  coward,  and  now  he  knew  that  his  life  hung  on  a  chance 
as  frail  as  the  tie  that  binds  the  withered  leaf  to  the  bough.  He  changed 
color,  his  knees  shook  together ;  he  clasped  his  hands.  Should  he  fall 
on  his  knees  and  beg  for  mercy? 

"  Did  you  read — scoundrel  ?"  was  the  question  asked  by  Dorfner,  in  a 
voice  unnaturally  low  and  calm. 

There  was  something  pitiable  in  the  contrast — here,  Dorfner,  a  man  of 
muscular  frame,  with  his  face — stamped  with  a  sullen  ferocity — his  face 
turned  over  his  shoulder,  thus  presenting  his  forehead,  nose  and  beard,  in 
profile  to  the  light — there  Jacopo,  with  his  face  distorted  into  an  expres- 
sion of  grotesque  fear,  while  his  slender  limbs  trembled  under  the  weight 
of  his  rotund  body. 

In  his  terror  he  had  forgotten  his  pistols.  It  may  have  been  that  his 
abject  fear  was  caused  as  much  by  the  words  which  he  had  hastily  perused, 
as  by  the  determined  ferocity  of  Dormer's  visage. 

"Did  you  read,  I  say?" 

Was  it  courage  born  of  the  consciousness  of  a  fatal  Truth,  or 
the  frenzied  energy  of  despair?  Jacopo  became  suddenly  calm;  his 
limbs  trembled  no  longer;  something  like  dignity  was  impressed  upon 
his  face. 

Gazing  over  Peter's  shoulder,  he  beheld  a  face,  through  an  interval  of 
the  foliage — a  face  which  seemed  not  the  visage  of  a  living  thing — but  an 
Apparition  from  the  Other  World.  At  the  sight  of  that  face,  whose  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  him,  a  strange  energy  filled  the  soul  of  the  coward; 
calmly,  his  voice  unbroken  by  a  tremor,  he  uttered  these  words  — 

"  I  did  read.  And  more  than  this,  I  only  read  what  I  knew  before. 
That  you,  Peter  Dorfner,  did,  on  the  night  of  November  Twenty-third, 
fifty-six,  in  the  room  near  yonder  chesnut  tree,  commit  a  barbarous  and 
cowardly  murder!" 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  he  folded  his  arms,  and  stood  prepared  to 
meet  his  death.  The  eyes  were  gazing  upon  him  all  the  while.  Through 
the  interval  in  the  foliage  he  saw  the  face,  and  felt  his  coward  soul  filled 
with  a  new  life. 

Peter  Dorfner  rose  from  his  seat,  his  face  livid  with  rage.  He  had  no 
weapon,  but  a  desperate  strength,  the  fury  of  a  madman,  fired  his  veins. 
His  chest  swelling,  the  veins  on  his  face  standing  black  and  protuberant 
from  the  livid  skin,  he  advanced  a  single  step,  while  his  glance  announced 
his  deadly  purpose. 

Jacopo  did  not  move ;  pale  and  motionless,  he  did  not  wish  to  avoid 
the  fury  of  the  old  man. 

For  a  moment,  Dorfner,  roused  into  all  the  vigor  of  his  early  manhood 
contemplated  his  victim. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


237 


"I  will  throttle  you — I  will  crush  you  with  one  grasp — "  said  Peter,  in 
a  tone  whose  measured  emphasis  indicated  the  relentless  nature  of  his 
vengeance,  better  than  all  the  oaths,  or  boisterous  language,  that  ever  rose 
to  the  lips  of  madness. 

At  this  moment  a  shadow  passed  between  Dorfner  and  the  sun.  As  the 
shadow  passed,  a  footstep  was  heard. 

He  turned  his  face  to  the  west,  and  sank  back  in  his  chair,  like  a  man 
who  had  received  a  bullet  in  his  heart.  His  face  expressed  surprise — dis- 
may—his extended  hand  pointed  toward  the  west. 

Surprised  beyond  the  power  of  language,  Jacopo  turned  and  gazed  in 
the  direction  indicated  by  the  extended  hand. 

The  garden  walk,  extending  from  the  arbor,  to  the  western  wicket, 
stretched  before  him,  a  brown  path  leading  among  beds  of  foliage  and 
flowers. 

There  was  a  form  in  the  path ;  the  form  of  a  young  man  dressed  in 
dark  attire,  with  a  black  mantle  floating  from  his  shoulder.  His  face 
could  not  be  seen,  but  as  he  went  down  the  path  with  measured  steps,  his 
form  thrown  into  distinct  relief  by  the  western  sky,  the  sunbeams  tinted 
his  dark  attire,  and  fringed  with  a  pale  golden  lustre  the  locks  of  his 
black  hair. 

It  was  a  muscular  form,  tempered  by  the  grace  and  beauty  of  young 
manhood;  the  step  was  firm  and  regular;  though  only  the  back  of  the 
unknown  was  visible,  it  was  evident  that  he  was  attired  in  a  costume, 
altogether  different  from  the  fashion  of  the  day — a  dark  dress,  which 
fitted  closely  to  his  limbs,  was  only  relieved  by  the  graceful  drapery  of 
the  mantle,  that  floated  from  his  shoulder.  His  locks  were  surmounted 
by  a  cap,  whose  solitary  plume  rose  in  the  sunlight,  blackly  defined 
against  the  western  sky. 

It  was  this  form  which,  passing  before  the  arbor,  had  thrown  a  shadow 
upon  Peter's  face,  as  his  arm  was  nerved  for  a  deadly  blow ;  and  now,  as 
the  unknown,  without  once  looking  back,  went  toward  the  western  gate, 
the  old  man,  stricken  into  his  chair,  as  by  a  bullet,  extended  his  hand, 
while  his  features  were  blank  with  amazement  and  terror. 

Jacopo  could  only  gaze  from  the  face  of  Peter  to  the  retreating  form ; 
the  scene  deprived  him  of  the  power  of  speech. 

"'It's  him — I'd  swear  it!"  gasped  the  old  man,  without  moving  his  arm, 
or  changing  his  gaze.  "I  can't  see  his  face,  but  I  know  it's  him.  Not  in 
flesh  and  blood — a  rale  livin'  man,  but  his  sperrit — " 

"Who?"  exclaimed  Jacopo,  as  the  memory  of  the  unknown  face,  whose 
eyes  had  nerved  him  for  a  desperate  accusal,  only  a  moment  since,  came 
back  to  him  with  overwhelming  force. 

"Who?  Don't  ask  me — "  cried  the  old  man,  his  features  still  violently 
agitated,  while  his  forehead  was  bathed  in  perspiration — "You  know  who 
— we've  all  seen  him  afore,  but  since  that  night  he  has  not  been  seen  alive 


233  PAUL  ARDENHEIM:  OR, 

on  Wissahikon.  It's  a  sperrit — I  tell  you — if  he'd  only  look  back — it's 
him,  1  say;  I'll  swear  to 't!" 

With  these  incoherent  words,  old  Peter  still  pointed  towards  the  un- 
known, his  emotion  growing  more  like  madness  every  moment. 

"It's  a  living  man,"  cried  Jacopo — "It  is — 

"  Don't  speak  that  name,"  the  old  man  exclaimed  with  a  shudder — "  I 
tell  you  he's  no  livin'  man.  He  has  not  been  seen  on  the  Wissahikon 
since  the  night  when  Madeline  disappeared — There  was  a  mangled  body 
found,  some  days  afterwards— it  was  him!  No!  no!  No  livin'  man,  by 
*  *  *!    A  sperrit — a  sperrit!" 

To  Jacopo  the  violent  emotion  of  Peter  Dorfner  was  altogether  incom- 
prehensible. Peter,  who  had  grown  gray  under  suspicion  of  various 
crimes,  who  was  said  to  fear  "neither  God  nor  Devil;"  Peter  Dorfner, 
who,  only  a  moment  since,  stood  prepared  for  a  work  of  murder,  now  a 

pitiable  and  abject  thing;  stricken  as  by  a  supernatural  hand  it  was 

all  a  mystery  to  the  eyes  of  Jacopo. 

True,  he  had  himself  beheld  a  face,  brilliant  with  eyes  of  unutterable 
power,  looking  upon  him,  through  an  interval  of  the  foliage.  A  vague 
memory  came  over  him  of  having  seen  that  face  before,  and  a  name  rose 
to  his  lips,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  was  drowned  by  the  ejaculation 
of  Dorfner. 

"Look!  He  passes  through  the  gate,  but  don't  once  look  back!  It's  a 
sperrit,  I  say!  He  goes  down  the  hill-side  into  the  meadow — hah!  The 
men  workin'  in  the  fields  drop  their  scythes  and  look  at  him.  Does  a 
livin'  man  start  up  from  the  ground,  walk  between  you  and  the  sun, 
and  steal  away  without  once  lookin'  back  ?  Look  yonder  !  He  is  passin' 
through  the  midst  of  them — he  turns — no!  Without  lookin'  back,  he 
hurries  toward  the  woods — Ah,  it's  him,  not  in  body,  but  in  sperrit — it  is 
Paul  Ardenheim  !" 

And  this  man,  who  believed  in  "  neither  God  nor  Devil,"  was  conquered 
by  the  mosj  improbable  superstition.  That  superstition  may  have  been 
the  last  ember  of  a  great  religious  principle,  burning  faintly  amid  the 
ashes  of  a  debased  nature.  With  the  word  "  Paul  Ardenheim,"  he  fell 
back  insensible  in  the  chair,  his  parting  lips  spotted  with  white  foam. 

Jacopo  advanced  to  the  table,  eager  to  grasp  the  fragments  of  printed 
paper,  and  read  at  his  leisure  the  Revelation  which  was  embodied  in 
their  words.  Only  one  fragment  met  his  view;  the  other  had  disappeared. 

"  I  can't  make  head  nor  tail  on't,"  he  exclaimed,  with  ai)  oath.  "And 
yet  Hopkins  must  have  some  hint  of  the  matter,  or  he  would  not  have 
directed  me  to  search  the  room  near  the  chesnut  tree.  '  Sleep  in  that 
room,  Jacopo,  and  search  every  closet.  Whatever  you  discover  in  the 
way  of  paper  or  parchment,  bring  to  me,  and  your  fortune  is  made.'  But 
how  did  old  Peter  obtain  this  paragraph  of  a  newspaper?  —  He  must  know 
that  he  is  suspected  o'  doin'  somethin'  not  altogether  pretty." 

I 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


239 


While  the  light  playing  among  the  leaves  and  flowers  of  the  arbor, 
shone  over  the  pallid  face  and  snowy  beard  of  the  insensible  man,  Jacopo 
anxiously  perused  the  fragment.  ' 


taken  away, 
near  the 
chesnut 
concealed 
I  suppose 
real  name 
rred   on  the 
king 
my 
ord 

Jacopo  examined  the  paper  with  a  look  of  ludicrous  dismay. 

"  If  I  had  the  other  fragment,  I  might  make  something  out  o'  this. 
'After  the  deed  was  done,  the  child  was  taken  away.1  There  was  a  child, 
then?  1  The  body  teas  con'' — there  was  a  'body*  also — Zounds!  Where  is 
that  fragment?  Why  could  not  Hopkins  have  told  me  all  about  the  matter, 
instead  of  sending  me  in  the  dark  on  such  a  fool's  errand.  Here  I've  stood 
the  chance  of  having  my  throat  cut  twice,  and  even  now  am  not  certain 
that  my  lungs  will  not  be  perforated  by  some  dirty  piece  of  lead  or  other 
—  ah,  that  fragment,  that  oracular  fragment!" 

As  Jacopo  thus  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in  a  crude  soliloquy,  he  did 
not  cease  to  examine  alternately,  and  with  a  searching  glance,  the  piece 
of  paper  which  he  held  in  one  hand,  and  the  white-bearded  face,  which 
glowed  in  the  sunlight  at  his  side. 

"  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I  am  convinced  that  he  knows  some- 
thing of  Madeline.  And  Madeline  is  no  common  peasant  girl — a  stray 
slice  cut  off  from  the  fruit-cake  of  aristocracy  !  Why  should  Hopkins  take 
such  an  interest  in  the  matter?  Let  me  think!  Two  years  and  six 
months  ago,  Hopkins  and  my  late  master  were  thick  as  thieves.  There 
was  some  talk  about  a  mysterious  affair;  in  fact,  the  merchant  and  the 
lord  were  never  done  muttering,  whispering,  and  counselling  with  each 
other.  —  Oh,  my  unpropitious  stars,  why  did  I  thus  incur  your  ven- 
geance?" 

As  though  some  terrible  memory  had  crossed  his  brain,  Jacopo  clasped 
his  hands  piteously,  and  cast  his  eyes  toward  the  top  of  the  arbor. 

"Why  did  I  thus  depart  from  the  strict  line  of  my  duty,  and  betray  a 
sinful  weakness?  Yes,  on  the  day  when  my  lord  left  Philadelphia,  he 
sent  me  to  Hopkins's  house,  to  his  own  chamber,  in  fact,  to  get  certain 
important  papers.  I  had  them  in  my  hand,  and  yet  forgot  to  break  the 
seal !    Pitiable  frailty  !    Had  I  even  moistened  the  seal  with  warm  water, 


After  the  deed  was  done,  the  child 
The   body  was  con 
window  which 
tree.  Do 
certain  pa 
may 
of 


240 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


there  would  be  some  excuse  for  me,  but  as  it  is,  I  did  not  even  make  an 
effort.  That  seal  once  removed,  the  whole  secret  of  the  matter  would  have 
been  revealed  —  but  as  the  case  stands,  I  know  dev'lish  little  about  it,  and 
have  no  security  for  my  throat  or  lungs  !" 

His  eye  rested  upon  the  insensible  man.  The  right  hand  was  clenched 
upon  the  breast ;  there  was  a  fragment  of  paper  between  the  finger  and 
thumb.    Jacopo  gave  utterance  to  a  cry  of  joy. 

"  Could  I  only  get  it — but  he  may  recover — hah  !  He  begins  to  breathe 
again  !  Oh,  for  a  stray  apoplexy  to  touch  old  Peter  on  the  neck,  or  even 
a  vagrant  catalepsy  to  throw  him  into  a  trance  !" 

Advancing  stealthily,  he  touched  the  hand  of  the  insensible  man,  but 
Peter  did  not  move. 

"I  know  you — you  old  dog!  Makin'  believe  that  you  don't  see  or 
hear;  and  in  a  minute  you'll  spring  upon  me  like  a  she  wild-cat!" 

He  touched  the  fragment;  gently,  very  gently,  but  the  old  man's  hand 
was  like  a  vice.  Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  Jacopo  seized  the  hand, 
and  pressed  the  thumb  and  forefinger  apart.  The  old  man  stirred,  but 
did  not  unclose  his  eyes.  The  paper  fluttered  to  the  ground,  near 
Jacopo's  feet. 

In  a  moment  he  had  seized  it ;  he  had  placed  it  within  the  other  frag- 
ment ;  and  here  is  the  result,  which  he  beheld  : 

After  the  deed  was  done,  the  child  was  taken  away. 
The  body  was  concealed  in  a  closet,  near  the 
window  which  looks  out  upon  a  large  chesnut 
tree.  Dorfner,  with  the  Corpse,  also  concealed 
certain  parchments  and  papers,  which  I  suppose 
may  lead  to  some  knowledge  of  the  real  name 
of  the  poor  victim.  This  all  occurred  on  the 
Twenty-third  of  November,  1756 ;  and  in  making 
this  confession,  I  ask  forgiveness  of  mankind  for  my 
share  in  this  detestable  crime,  and  Pray  the  Lord 

Jacopo  shook  like  a  withered  leaf.  If  there  was  one  word  which  he 
feared  above  another,  it  was  the  monosyllable  '  Corpse.' 

"I  have  no  objection  to  'body,'  used  in  a  funeral  sense,  but — 4  Corpse!' 
Augh  !  So  unpleasantly  suggestive  !  '  Dorfner' — oh,  ho,  my  dear  old 
boy  !  No  wonder  you  start  and  swear,  and  go  off  in  faintin'  spells— no 
wonder.  «  Poor  victim' — '  child' — my  brains  goes  whirling  like  a  cork  in 
an  eddy  !" 

A  black  face  rose  slowly  over  the  chair  of  the  insensible  Peter.  Jacopo 
shuddered  as  he  saw  the  sightless  eyeballs  glowing  redly  in  the  sockets, 
while  the  sun  streamed  over  the  dark  visage.  A  knife  gleamed  over  the 
grey  hairs  of  Dorfner ;  it  was  clenched  in  the  right  arm  of  the  negro. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


24] 


Jacopo  left  the  arbor  on  tip-toe,  passed  around  it,  and  strode  with  a 
noiseless  step  toward  the  farm-house.  He  passed  under  the  shadows  of 
the  chesnut  tree,  and  cast  an  anxious  glance  toward  the  window.  Up 
that  fatal  tree,  you  will  remember,  Gilbert  climbed  on  the  last  night  of 
1775.  Jacopo  stood  on  the  threshold  stone — the  farm-house  door 
was  open. 

He  cast  a  searching  glance  around.  All  was  still  and  desolate  about 
the  farm-house.  The  sun  shone  gayly  over  the  roof  of  the  barn,  and 
there  was  a  solitary  bird  chirping  among  the  foliage  of  the  chesnut  tree. 
To  the  west  stretched  the  undulating  field,  with  the  laborers  grouped 
among  the  piles  of  new-mown  hay.  But  they  labored  no  longer ;  their 
scythes  rested  upon  the  grass  ;  every  face  was  turned  toward  the  western 
woods. 

Even  as  he  stood  upon  the  threshold  stone,  one  foot  resting  upon  the 
sill  of  the  door — while  his  hand  still  grasped  the  torn  fragments  of 
printed  paper — Jacopo  turned  his  gaze  far  to  the  west,  and  gazed  in  the 
direction  indicated  by  the  extended  arms  of  the  laborers. 

A  dark  form  was  seen  on  the  verge  of  the  distant  woods, — dimly  seen, 
'  for  the  shadows  gathered  thickly  beneath  the  luxuriant  foliage. 

It  was  the  form  which,  not  long  ago,  had  passed  between  the  old  man 
and  the  sun,  and  with  its  shadow  stricken  him  down  in  the  very  act  of 
murder. 

"  Paul  Ardenheim,"  cried  Jacopo,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold—"  Or 
his  Ghost."    He  closed  the  door  and  was  lost  to  sight. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  dark  figure  disappeared  among  the  shadows 
of  the  distant  woods,  and  a  deep  groan  resounded  from  the  arbor 


CHAPTER  THIRD. 

THE  DOVE. 

The  dark  form  which  come  between  the  old  mart  and  the  sun,  and  with 
its  shadow  struck  him  down,  even  in  the  act  of  Murder;  was  it  indeed 
Paul  Ardenheim,  or  but  an  apparition  gliding  sadlyand  noiselessly  through 
the  light  and  shadow  of  the  summer  day  ? 

In  the  woods  which  bloom  so  fragrantly  around  the  Wissahikon,  we 
may  find  an  answer  to  our  question. 

There  was  a  narrow  path  leading  from  the  field  of  new-mown- hay, 

16 


242  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

dow  >  into  the  nooks  of  the  forest,  down  even  to  the  waters  of  the  Wissa- 
hikon. Where  the  oaks  and  chesnuts,  the  maples  and  the  pines,  were 
grouped  in  one  rich  contrast  of  foliage  :  where  the  sunlight  came  lov- 
ingly, scattering  patches  of  gold  upon  the  sod  ;  where  a  tiny  thread  of 
liquid  silver  trickled  down  a  gray  old  rock,  and  made  low  music  among 
the  shadows — such  was  the  course  of  the  wild-wood  path,  which  led  from 
the  field  of  new-mown  hay,  to  the  verge  of  the  Wissahikon  waters. 

Along  this  path,  the  dark  form  hastened  with  a  measured  step,  never 
once  looking  to  the  right  or  left,  or  casting  a  backward  glance  through  the 
light  and  shadow  of  the  woods. 

Now  in  the  sunshine,  where  every  outline  of  the  shape,  every  lock  of 
the  waving  hair,  and  point  of  the  dark  attirr,  was  fully  disclosed,  and  now 
into  the  shade,  where  the  thick  leaves  spread  a  tremulous  canopy,  and  the 
low  voice  of  the  tiny  rill  sung  through  the  silence. 

Now  turning  the  breast  of  this  gray  rock,  crowned  by  a  clump  of  sap- 
lings, now  along  this  level  slope,  where  the  moss,  softer  than  any  carpet, 
glowed  in  a  passing  ray,  and  now  along  this  barren  strip  of  earth,  whose 
brown  leaves  are  darkened  by  the  twilight  of  the  withered  pines. 

Thus,  without  once  looking  back,  or  glancing  to  the  right  or  left,  the* 
dark  form  wandered  on. 

At  last  there  came  a  narrow  dell,  open  to  the  sunlight,  and  full  of 'fresh 
wild  grass,  whose  vivid  green  was  sprinkled  with  flowers.  A  narrow 
dell,  with  walls  of  leaves  on  either  side,— or  rather  with  the  foliage 
spreading  from  the  grass  to  the  sky,  like  immense  folds  of  tapestry, 
rendered  surpassingly  beautiful  by  fairy  hands.  A  narrow  dell,  through 
whose  wild  grass  the  tiny  thread  of  silver  sparkled  fitfully,  and  through 
whose  silence  the  low  song  was  ever  singing. 

At  the  western  extremity  of  this  dell,  where  it  widened  into  a  slope  of 
carpet-like  moss,  sparkled  a  calm  sheet  of  water,  embosomed  among 
leaves.  The  shadow  which  rested  there,  making  the  water  more  calmly 
beautiful,  and  wrapping  the  giant  trees  on  the  opposite  shore  in  vague 
twilight,  was  only  broken  by  a  flood  of  hazy  light,  which  came  rushing 
like  a  golden  rain  through  an  opening  in  the  trees. 

Above  the  dell, — above  the  calm  sheet  of  water,  undimpled  by  a  ripple 
— shone  a  glimpse  of  Heaven,  whose  deep  azure  was  blushing  into  gold, 
at  the  kiss  of  the  afternoon  sun. 

And  the  dark  form  which  had  passed  between  the  old  man  and  the  sun, 
striking  him  down  with  its  shadow,  hastened  along  the  dell,  without  once 
looking  back. 

As  it  came  in  sight  of  the  calm  sheet  of  water,  a  word  arose  upon  the 
silence,  uttered  by  a  voice  of  sad  emphasis. 
That  word  was  "  Wissahikon  !" 

At  last  the  form  drew  near  the  water-side,  and  that  calm  sheet,  spreading 
without  a  ripple,  in  its  frame  of  rocks  and  trees,  reflected  a  face. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


243 


It  was  a  bronzed  face,  shadowed  by  locks  of  dark  brown  hair.  There 
were  large  lustrous  eyes  beneath  the  boldly  marked  brows.  There  was 
beard  upon  the  firm  lip  —  dark  beard,  which  clothed  the  round  chin,  and 
softly  relieved  the  dark  olive  complexion.  There  was  a  broad  forehead, 
shadowed  by  a  gloom  beyond  all  power  of  language  to  describe. 
Altogether,  a  face  so  bold,  and  yet  beautiful  in  its  young  manhood,  so 
darkened  in  every  lineament  by  some  memory  of  the  past,  or  prophecy 
of  the  future,  the  Wissahikon  waters  never  reflected  before  this  hour. 

The  dark  form  stood  by  the  water-si<!e — centred  in  that  scene  so  full 
of  romance  and  beauty.  To  the  north  and  south  spread  the  calm  water, 
resembling  no  impetuous  torrent,  but  a  slumbering  lakelet  embosomed 
amid  trees,  rocks  and  flowers. 

There  were  grotesque  rocks  on  the  opposite  shore,  mingled  with  the 
colossal  trunks  of  forest  trees.  Beyond  those  rocks,  and  through  the  in- 
tervals of  those  trees,  the  ascent  of  a  broad  hill-side  was  dimly  seen,  with 
a  ray  of  light  trembling  through  the  distant  shadows. 

This  shore  was  in  strong  contrast  with  that  on  which  the  dark  form 
stood.  Leaves,  blossoms,  flowers,  nothing  but  leaves,  blossoms  and 
•  flowers,  from  the  calm  water  to  the  glimpse  of  sky.  No  grand  trunks 
of  giant  trees  were  visible  ;  it  was  a  mass  of  foliage  bathed  in  sunshine, 
while  the  opposite  shore  brooded  among  its  shadows. 

The  opening  of  the  dell — a  space  of  level  moss  —  alone  broke  the  uni- 
formity of  the  leafy  prospect. 

To  the  south  and  the  north,  the  foliage,  meeting  from  the  opposite 
shores,  enclosed  the  waters  in  its  embrace,  and  the  calm  waves  mirrored 
every  tree,  rock  and  flower,  until  there  seemed  another  wood,  another 
world  and  sky  beneath  their  surface. 

Over  the  tree-tops  of  the  south,  a  glimpse  of  a  roof  was  seen,  with  a 
line  of  smoke  fading  away  from  a  chimney  into  the  leaves  and  sky.  It 
was  the  roof  of  an  ancient  mill,  standing  near  a  waterfall,  whose  music 
came  in  softened  cadence  over  the  woods. 

As  the  dark  form  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  bank,  as  the  bronzed  face 
was  reflected  in  the  waters,  a  sharp  sound  crashed  on  the  silence  of  the 
scene.  It  was  the  report  of  gun  or  pistol,  or  perchance  only  the  echo  of 
a  rock  thundering  from  some  distant  height,  but  the  sound  passed  unheeded. 

That  face  still  gazed  in  sadness  into  the  clear  waves. 

Presently  a  sound  as  of  fluttering  wings  was  heard,  and  an  object  fell  at 
the  feet  of  the  motionless  form. 

It  was  a  dying  bird,  with  a  drop  of  blood  starting  from  the  soft  plumage 
of  its  breast.  There  was  a  glassy  film  upon  its  eye — once  it  moved  its 
wings,  beating  the  grass  with  faint  blows— and  then  it  was  dead. 

There  was  something  like  an  omen,  or  a  warning  in  this  scene — it  lay 
upon  the  green  moss,  its  white  plumage  tinted  by  gold,  with  a  single 
blood-drop  starting  from  the  breast. 


244 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


And  the  form  standing  near  the  waters  bent  down,  and  a  hand  raised 
the  bird — it  was  a  wild  dove — and  as  the  warmth  of  life  still  clung  about 
its  plumage,  it  was  pressed  against  a  manly  breast. 

"A  welcome  home!"  a  sad  voice  was  heard — "Is  it  an  omen,  or  a 
warning  ?" 

At  the  same  moment  a  glad  laugh  rang  merrily  in  the  air,  as,  from  the 
crashing  bushes,  sprang  a  manly  form,  while- a  handsome  face,  ruddy  with 
excitement,  appeared  amid  its  encircling  locks  of  chesnut  hair. 

"  Paul  Ardenheim  !"  rang  out  the  tones  of  that  cheerful  voice — "  You 
here !" 

"  Reginald  !"  exclaimed  a  deep  voice,  in  an  accent  of  unfeigned  amaze- 
ment. 


CHAPTER  FOURTH. 

PAUL  REGINALD. 

With  his  gun  resting  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  small  huntsman's  cap 
tossed  aside  from  his  forehead,  the  new-comer  advanced,  and  in  a  moment 
stood  beside  the  sombre  form. 

His  muscular  form  was  attired  in  a  blue  hunting-shirt,  gathered  to  his 
waist  by  a  belt,  and  reaching  from  the  bared  throat  to  the  knees.  He 
wore  boots  of  buckskin.  There  was  a  powder-horn  at  his  side,  and  a 
hunting-knife  glimmered  below  his  girdle. 

His  cheeks  flushed  by  excitement,  his  dark  blue  eyes  flashing  with  the 
consciousness  of  youth  and  health,  his  proud  lip  darkened  by  a  slight 
mustache,  he  stood  beside  that  sombre  form,  like  an  embodiment  of  animal 
beauty,  beside  the  incarnation  of  a  Thought. 

It  -was  a  strong  contrast,  between  this  face  glowing  with  ruddy  hues, 
and  relieved  by  luxuriant  hair,  and  that  bronzed  visage,  whose  large  earn- 
est eyes  and  pale  forehead — thrown  more  distinctly  into  view  by  the 
sombre  attire — only  suggested  the  idea  of  acute  mental  suffering. 

They  clasped  hands  together,  and  stood  in  silence,  gazing  into  each 
other's  eyes, — Paul  Ardenheim  and  Reginald  of  Lyndulfe. 

"It  seems  to  me,  as  though  centuries  had  gone  since  last  we  met!"  said 
Paul,  keeping  the  hand  of  his  friend  within  his  own,  and  resting  upon  that 
glowing  face  his  sad  lustrous  eyes. 

"Egad,  Paul,  it  does  indeed!"  cried  Reginald,  with  a  cheerful  laugh — 
"Deuce  take  the  cap,  I  say,"  and  he  rested  his  rifle  against  a  rock,  and 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  24b 

tossed  his  cap  on  the  sod — "The  day  is  somewhat  warm— a  little  too 
warm  for  violent  exercise — sit  there,  Paul,  and  I'll  sit  here,  and  we'll  talk 
over  old  times  together." 

"Old  times,"  echoed  Paul,  as  he  rested  himself  upon  a  rock,  which 
overhung  the  water — "We  have  known  each  other  something  more  than 
two  years." 

A  sad  smile  passed  over  his  face. 

"Two  years  and  six  months,  my  dear  Paul — "  Reginald  threaded  his 
chesnut  curls  with  a  delicate  hand  sparkling  with  rings — "And  yet  we 
have  lived  more,  Paul,  in  that  brief  period,  than  in  all  the  rest  of  our  years 
together.  Lived,  I  say, — suffered,  enjoyed — started  up  from  boys  into 
men.  Two  years  and  six  months  ago,  Paul,  we  met  for  the  first  time, 
under  peculiar  circumstances.  It  was  in  the  old  farmer's  house,  at  the 
wedding  of  a  young  girl — you  remember?" 

Was  it  only  the  shadow  of  a  passing  cloud,  or  did  the  cool  air  of  this 
quiet  dell  chill  his  blood,  fevered  as  it  was  by  violent  exercise  ? 

As  he  uttered  the  words,  «  a  young  girl,'  a  cloud  came  over  his  face,  an 
icy  tremor  agitated  his  limbs. 

"You  saved  my  life,  Paul.  That  bound  me  to  you  for  ever;  in  life  or 
in  death.  The  next  morning,  at  daybreak,  Paul,  as  I  was  about  to  leave 
Philadelphia — having  been  called  home  to  England  by  a  letter — you 
appeared  suddenly  before  me,  pronounced  my  name,  and  thus  reminded 
me  of  the  pledge  which  I  had  made  to  you  the  night  before.  You 
announced  your  intention  of  going  to  England.  We  clasped  hands  on  it, 
Paul,  and  went  together.  Do  you  remember  our  journey  to  Lyndulfe  ? 
Those  were  delightful  days  we  passed  together,  Paul,  in  the  old  castle, 
among  the  Yorkshire  hills — but,  Paul — " 

"  Spare  your  reproaches,  Reginald.  I  left  you  suddenly,  and  without 
one  farewell  word.  The  hours  that  we  spent  together  in  Lyndulfe  castle 
are  present  with  me  now — I  remember  well,  how  well !  our  solemn  pledge 
of  brotherhood.  But  one  night  I  hurried  from  the  castle  ;  I  did  not  clasp 
your  hand  before  I  went ;  I  did  not  tell  you  of  the  cause  of  my  flight." 
"Flight?" 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  flight.    I  fled,  Reginald — over  England,  over  France, 
Italy — over  Europe,  and  never  once  escaped  from  my  relentless  pursuer." 
"Relentless  pursuer?" 

"It  was  not  a  physical  enemy,  Reginald, — it  came  not  in  bodily  shape, 
or  I  would  have  grappled  with  it,  and  died  defying  its  vengeance. — It  was 
here — it  was  here — " 

Paul  laid  his  hand  upon  his  forehead. 

Reginald  arose,  and  bending  over  his  friend,  took  his  hand  within  his 
own,  and  gazed  earnestly  into  his  face. 

"Paul,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  unfeigned  kindness,  "it  is  one  of  your 
Dark  Hours!" 


246  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"My  Dark'  Hours?" 

"You  have  never  told  me  the  story  of  your  life,  Paul.  For  this  I 
do  not  upbraid  you — I  do  not  perchance  deserve,  and  have  no  desire  to 
intrude  upon,  your  confidence." 

"  That  confidence  would  blight  you  into  madness." 

"On  the  last  night  of  Seventy-Four,  I  saw  you  for  the  first  time.  The 
moment  I  looked  upon  your  face,  Paul,  and  met  the  gaze  of  your  eye — 
while  all  around  fell  back  from  you,  with  an  inexplicable  fear — I  felt  that 
you  were  my  friend,  my  brother.  I  knew,  as  certainly  as  though  the 
voice  of  a  spirit  had  whispered  it,  that  we  were  linked  together,  by  a  hand 
stronger  than  the  hand  of  man — mightier  even  than  Death.  I  saw  you, 
young,  frank, thoughtful,  but  brave  and  true;  and  without  asking  one  word 
of  your  past  life,  I  took  you  for  what  you  were,  and  you  became  my 
Brother.  That  you  had  lived  all  your  life  in  these  wilds,  that  your  father 
and  your  sister  were  living — this  much,  indeed,  I  knew.  But  all  beside 
was  mystery.  I  seek  not  now  to  penetrate  that  mystery,  but  I  have  a 
few  rude  words  to  say  to  you,  Paul,  and  do  not — do  not,  I  beseech,  slight 
my  friendship,  yes,  my  brotherhood,  with  the  reproach  due  only  to  a 
heartless  curiosity.  —  You  have  your  dark  hours,  Paul,  and  it  is  this  that 
makes  the  blood  chill  in  my  veins,  as,  gazing  upon  your  face,  I  see  it 
shadowed  by  a  cloud,  that  looks  to  me  like  an  unutterable  despair." 

Reginald  paused  a  moment,  as  if  to  gather  strength ;  then,  with  his  face 
flushed  and  his  eye  brightening,  he  continued: 

"I  have  seen  you,  Paul,  gazing  with  rapture  on  the  setting  sun.  It  was 
on  shipboard,  when  the  ocean,  framed  in  the  white  clouds  that  lined  the 
horizon,  trembled  and  blushed  in  the  last  flush  of  day.  My  arm  was 
round  your  neck — there  was  rapture  in  your  face,  a  calm,  deep  joy,  that 
indicated  a  soul  at  peace  with  God  and  man.  * How  beautiful !'  you  ex- 
claimed— 'It  speaks  to  me  of  the  other  world!'  That  instant  the  joy 
passed  from  your  face;  a  cloud  was  on  your  forehead;  your  eyes  glared 
with  an  expression  of  agony,  which  I  can  never  forget:  and  these  words 
passed  from  your  lips,  'My  father,  my  father!'  The  accent  of  unuttera- 
ble anguish  which  accompanied  these  words,  I  have  not  for  an  instant 
forgotten — " 

"My  father!  My  father!"  groaned  Paul,  as  he  hid  his  face  within  his 
hands.  "Perjury  —  Sacrilege  —  Blasphemy!  These  are  no  trifling 
crimes — " 

"  It  was  a  Dark  Hour,  Paul ;  dark  to  me,  because  I  could  not  comprehend, 
and  therefore  could  not  relieve.  Many  a  time,  since  that  hour,  have  I  seen 
the  smile  pass  from  your  face,  and  that  strange  gloom  rush  suddenly  over 
your  brow,  and  words  as  strange — every  accent,  steeped  in  unutterable 
despair — fall  from  your  lips.  At  Lyndulfe,  one  night,  when  all  was  mirth 
and  song,  and  a  crowd  gathered  round  you,  listening  in  delight  to  your 
eloquent  words — when  every  eye  was  centred  upon  your  impassioned 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


247 


face,  and  your  glance  shone  with  an  incessant  brightness — even  then,  Paul, 
your  eye  grew  vague  and  glassy,  your  brow  was  overspread  by  that  fearful 
gloom,  and  you  rushed  from  the  scene  with  a  mad  cry  of  anguish.  Even 
then,  amid  the  clamor  and  dismay  created  by  this  sudden  change  in  your 
demeanor,  these  words  were  heard,  echoing  through  the  lighted  hall — My 
father!  My  father!  Uttered  again,  with  that  accent  of  despair,  too  deep 
for  human  comprehension,  or  human  relief." 
Paul  started  to  his  feet — 

44  Spare  me — spare  me — there  are  incidents  in  every  life  that  cannot  be 
tooUightly  touched — " 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  in  an  impetuous  tone,  Reginald  became 
suddenly  pale. 

"Does  he  speak  of  that  dark  night?    Can  he  know  Madeline  ?" 

The  thought  flashed  over  his  mind; -it  was  his  turn  to  shudder  and  grow 
pale.  The  name  of  Madeline  rose  to  his  lips,  her  ghost  to  his  soul.  For 
a  moment  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Paul  was  gazing  in  the  waters,  at  the 
reflection  of  his  agitated  face;  Reginald  sat  silent  and  shuddering. 

"Paul,  I  do  not  wish  to  lift  the  veil  which  rests  upon  your  heart.  But 
can  1  do  any  thing  to  relieve  this  misery  which  covers  you  with  such  gloom, 
and  stamps  upon  your  brow  the  impress  of  an  impenetrable  despair  ? 
Command  me,  Paul — I  do  not  say  command  my  gold,  for  that  would  be 
an  insult — but  command  my  heart,  my  arm.  They  are  yours.  Even  if 
you  have — but  no!  no!  it  is  impossible.  But  I  will  speak  it — even  if 
you  have  committed  a  crime — " 

Reginald  never  forgot  the  look  with  which  Paul  turned  to  him — never> 
until  the  hour  of  his  death,  forgot  the  accent  in  which  he  spoke. 

"Crime,  once  committed, leaves  its  memory  in  the  soul  and  on  the  brow. 
But  crime  that  is  to  be — does  it  not  fill  the  soul  with  its  horror,  and  stamp 
itself  in  characters  of  Prophecy  on  the  hour?" 

"Paul!  Paul!"  cried  Reginald,  overwhelmed  with  agony,  as  the  words 
of  Paul  penetrated  him  with  awe.    "I  would  give  my  life  to  serve  you." 

Paul  looked  upon  him  with  a  sad  smile. 

"Your  life  opens  before  you,  Reginald,  a  track  of  light  leading  upward, 
still  upward — amid  those  beautiful  clouds,  which  men  call  wealth  and 
power.  Yourself  a  lord,  your  father  one  of  the  noblest  names  on  the  scroll 
of  British  nobility,  you  have  before  you  an  enticing  prospect.  You  will 
carve  for  yourself  a  name  on  the  faces  of  the  battle  dead.  You  will  be 
admired  in  the  senate,  welcomed  wherever  you  turn,  by  the  plaudits  of  the 
multitude.  When  your  father  dies,  you  will  become  the  Lord  of  Lyn- 
dulfe,  of  Marionhurst,  of  Dernburg,  of  Camelford.  Your  title,  His  Grace 
the  Duke  of  Lyndulfe  and  Marionhurst!  Is  it  not  a  glittering  prospect, 
Reginald  ? 

"Then  you  will  take  to  your  bosom  some  beautiful  girl,  whose  dower 
will  swell  your  wealth  into  an  incredible  revenue,  while  her  beauty  will 


248 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


be  mirrored  in  your  children.  And  with  all  this  you  would  give  your  life 
to  serve  me !  Ha,  ha !  The  Duke  of  Lyndulfe  give  his  life  to  serve  the 
fortunes  of  a  houseless  and  nameless  man!" 

44  It  is  not  well,  Paul.  It  is  indeed  a  Dark  Hour,  when  you  mock  your 
friend,  your  brother." 

"Pardon,  Reginald,  pardon.  I  only  meant  to  say,  that  while  your  future 
spreads  before  you  all  that  is  most  desired  by  men, — a  prospect  of  light 
and  glory — mine  has  in  store  for  me  nothing  but  a  dishonored  name  and 
a  grave  unblessed  by  tears." 

"Paul,  I  swear  it — I  would  give  my  life  to  serve  you!" 

"Look  yonder,  Reginald.  Beyond  those  woods,  not  one  mile  from  this 
spot,  lies  the  home  of  my  thought.  Ere  the  setting  of  the  sun,  I  will  stand 
beside  the  walls  of  that  home,  and  see  the  vines  waving  about  its  roof-tree; 
see  the  faces  of  father — of  sister,  smiling  welcome  from  the  old  hall  door, 
or  I  will  stand  amid  a  pile  of  ruins,  and  fix  my  eyes  upon  two  graves." 

"Father— he  lives?" 

"  Take  care,  Reginald — it  will  bring  on,  once  again,  the  Dark  Hour.  He 
did  live,  on  the  first  day  of  1775,  when  I  left  this  valley.  Since  that  time 
I  have  had  no  word  from  his  pen ;  nor  have  I  received  any  intelligence 
of  him  or  my  sister.  He  may  live — he  may  be  dead.  A  little  while  and 
all  is  over." 

"Confide  in  me.  Tell  me  all.  We  are  alone,  Paul — the  hour  is  very 
still  and  solemn — I  feel  as  though  the  spirit  which  flashes  from  your  eyes, 
had  pervaded  my  own  bosom.  Awed  by  the  stillness,  the  solemnity  of 
this  hour,  I  swear — " 

"  Hold,  my  friend.  Let  us  talk  no  longer  of  my  life,  but  of  yours. 
Wherefore,  on  this  day  of  my  return  to  Wissahikon,  do  I  meet  you  beside 
these  waves?  Ah — you  blush — there  is  then  some  fair  lady  in  the  case?" 


CHAPTER  FIFTH. 

THE  NEW  LOVE  OF  REGINALD. 

"Paul,  I  will  tell  you  the  history.  You  have  guessed  the  truth.  She 
is  indeed  a  beautiful  girl—" 

"She—"  and  Paul  smiled  that  sad  smile,  which  always  filled  Reginald 
with  involuntary  awe. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


249 


"Do  you  remember  the  view  from  the  high  tower  of  Lyndulfe?  Stand- 
ing on  its  summit,  you  behold  the  hills  and  valleys  for  at  least  thirty  miles, 
with  farm-houses  dotting  the  prospect,  and  grim  castles  frowning  from  the 
distant  woods.    Do  you  remember  the  ruined  castle — " 

"It  stood  upon  the  west  of  your  father's  castle — not  ten  miles  away. 
A  splendid  pile  of  ruins,  rising,  with  its  tottering  walls,  against  the  dark 
background,  like  some  ghost  of  past  ages." 

'•It  is  a  castle  of  ruins  no  longer.  Soon  after  you  left  Lyndulfe,  a 
stranger  came  to  Wyttonhurst — that  is  the  name  of  the  castle,  you  remem- 
ber— and  soon  the  old  pile  of  ruins  became  strong  and  beautiful  again. 
There  were  various  rumors  concerning  this  stranger.  Some  said  that  he 
had  heaped  incredible  hoards  of  gold  in  the  East  Indies,  others  spoke  of 
the  American  Continent.  But  that  he  was  rich,  very  rich,  no  one  could 
deny,  for  he  rebuilt  the  castle,  and  soon  it  was  known,  that  he  had  been 
knighted  by  the  king.  He  was  called  Sir  Ralph  Wyttonhurst  of  Wyt- 
tonhurst." 

"And  this  stranger — " 

"  Was  blessed  with  one  of  the  most  beautiful  daughters  that  ever  human 
eye  beheld.  Not  one  of  those  blonde  women,  whose  cheeks,  like  the 
dawn,  are  swept  by  golden  hair,  and  whose  beauty  is  acknowledged  as  a 
type  of  our  English  women,  but  a  queenly  girl,  with  an  olive  cheek,  eyes 
intensely  black  and  brilliant,  and  a  step  full  of  majesty  and  pride.  You 
may  be  sure  that  her  hair  was  dark,  that  her  lip,  with  its  warm  vermilion, 
contrasted  vividly  with  the  clear  brown  of  her  cheek — " 

"At  his  words,"  muttered  Paul,  as  his  eye  grew  vacant,  "that  memory 
comes  once  more  upon  me  !  And  you  loved  her?"  he  said  aloud. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  how  we  met,  or  describe  to  you  the  history  of  our 
love,  in  all  those  minute  details,  which  are  interesting  only  to  two  persons, 
the  lover  and  the  beloved.  But  we  did  meet — well  I  remember  the  night, 
when,  amid  the  dark  woods  of  Wyttonhurst,  we  plighted  our  faith  to  each 
other." 

"Did  your  father  know  of  this?" 

"He  discovered  our  love,  and  on  pain  of  his  eternal  displeasure,  forbade 
me  ever  to  meet  my  betrothed  wife.  It  was  an  improper  alliance,  he  said, 
and  exclaimed  in  scorn — '  The  heir  of  Lyndulfe  unite  with  the  child  of  a 
nameless  wanderer !' " 

"Did  you  obey?" 

"  I  certainly  did  not.  My  father  then  forced  upon  me  a  commission  in 
his  Majesty's  dragoons — look — " 

Reginald  opened  the  breast  of  his  hunting-shirt,  and  the  light  shone 
upon  a  scarlet  uniform. 

"Take  care !   You  may  be  seen — you  are  now  on  Continental  ground." 

"Ha,  ha,  you  need  have  no  fear.  Yesterday, I  left  his  Majesty's  army, 
— they  are  encamped  somewhere  in  that  chaos  of  peach  trees  and  sand, 


250 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


known  as  New  Jersey.  I  disguised  myself,  as  you  see,  entered  Phila- 
delphia—" 

"  Your  object  1    Ah,  ha,  Reginald,  have  you  also  your  dark  hour  ?" 

"  Madeline  !"  muttered  Reginald,  with  a  changed  voice  ;  and  then  con- 
quering his  emotion,  he  continued  in  his  usual  tone — "  It  was  in  regard  to 
some  matter  of  deep  interest  to  my  father  that  I  came  yesterday  in  dis- 
guise to  Philadelphia,  when,  to  my  surprise  and  joy,  I  heard  that  Sir 
Ralph  Wyttonhurst  is  now  living  on  his  country-seat,  near  the  Wis- 
sahikon.    His  daughter — " 

"  You  have  seen  her  ?"  interrupted  Paul. 

"  Not  yet.  I  am  on  my  way  to  meet  her  at  this  moment.  They  tell 
me  that  the  mansion  of  her  father  stands  among  the  pines,  on  the  Wissa- 
hikon,  a  mile  or  two  from  this  spot,  near  the  Schuylkill." 

"Strange!"  murmured  Paul,  as  he  saw  his  own  face,  mirrored  in  the 
waves,  suddenly  flush  into  something  like  rapture — "Dark-eyed,  hair  black 
as  midnight,  a  step  like  a  queen,  eyes  beaming  with  the  tender  prophecies 
of  youth  and  hope  !  So  like  that  beautiful  dream,  which  flashed  over  the 
slumber  of  my  life,  and  woke  me  into  suffering  and  manhood.  Even  now 
I  see  her,  as  she  stood  before  the  door  of  that  fatal  chamber,  the  light 
streaming  over  the  beautiful  face,  as  she  suffered  her  dark  hair  to  wander 
wildly  over  her  shoulders — " 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ?"  cried  Reginald,  in  amazement — "  Do  you 
also  love  ?" 

"  Love  ?" — again  that  bitter  smile—"  Why  should  I  devote  beauty  and 
innocence  to  the  terrible  vengeance  of  my  destiny  ?  You  said  that  the 
mansion  of  Wyttonhurst  stood  in  a  grove  of  pines,  near  the  Schuylkill  ?" 

"So  the  country  folks  tell  me." 

"  It  must  be  near  her  home — the  Wizard's  daughter  !  Does  she  yet 
live  ?  Shall  I  ever  more  hear  the  music  of  her  voice,  or  be  roused  into 
madness  by  her  touch  ?  After  I  have  been  home — home  !  Home  !  Yes, 
after  I  have  been  home,  I  will  ascend  the  hill,  on  whose  summit  stands 
the  house  of  Isaac  the  Wizard.  »  Passing  through  the  grove  of  pines,  I 
will  look  upon  the  window  of  that  chamber  where  we  met,  and  behold 
her  face — hers — bathed  in  the  glory  of  sunset.  Or  perchance  there  is  a 
grave  among  the  pines,  a  grave  overspread  with  wild  flowers,  and  sacred 
with  her  ashes." 

"  But  tell  me,  Paul,  the  history  of  your  life  since  you  left  Lyndulfe — " 
"  Let  me  compress  ages  of  thought  and  suffering  in  a  word.  I  left  this 
valley,  where  my  life  had  been  spent,  an  enthusiast,  a  dreamer.  I  knew 
nothing  of  mankind  save  from  my  books, — the  hour  before  I  hurried  from 
Wissahikon,  and  met  you  in  the  street  of  Philadelphia,  I  had  known  for 
the  first  time,  how  dark,  how  fathomless  were  the  abysses  of  my  own  soul. 
Now,  Reginald,"" I  have  seen  the  world.  I  have  seen  the  world.  Does 
not  that  sentence  speak  the  entire  history?" 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


251 


"  You  have  been  in  Italy  ?" 

"In  France— in  Italy— in  Germany — in  Spain — in  Russia.  Every- 
where the  same  story  is  telling  every  hour,  a  story  told  in  fhe  groans  of 
those  who  are  born  to  suffer  and  die,  in  the  laughter  of  those  who  are  born 
to  trample  and  to  kill !  Amid  the  majestic  ruins  of  that  dream-land  called 
Italy,  amid  the  corn-fields  of  France,  amid  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Germany, 
amid  the  dreary  wastes  of  Russia,  I  have  beheld  in  various  forms,  the 
same  terrible  fact — a  Peasant  crushed  to  the  earth,  loaded  with  chains, 
baptizing  that  earth  with  his  blood  and  tears,  and  a  Lord  standing  with  his 
foot  upon  the  Peasant's  neck,  mocking  his  anguish  with  laughter,  and 
turning  his  blood,  his  tears,  into  gold.  That  is,  after  all,  the  picture  which 
the  whole  world  offers  to  the  eye  of  God — a  Slave  and  a  Lord.  Both 
brothers,  born  alike  of  the  same  dust,  going  alike  to  the  same  grave-worm, 
redeemed  alike  by  the  anguish  of  Calvary,  and  yet,  one  tramples  the 
other,  loads  him  with  chains  and  scorn,  and  turns  his  blood  and  tears 
into  gold." 

"Yet  there  must  be  classes  in  the  world,  Paul.  There  must  be  lords 
and  peasants.  There  must  be  kings  and  subjects.  There  must  be  rich 
and  poor." 

"  There  was  another  sight  which  I  saw,  Reginald — a  sight  that  affected 
me  deeply.  Even  as  the  Peasant,  crushed  to  the  earth  by  those  chains  — 
called  Custom,  Power,  and  other  fine-sounding  names — felt  the  foot  of  the 
Lord  upon  his  neck,  and  shed  upon  the  earth  the  baptism  of  the  Poor — 
blood  and  tears,  only  blood  and  tears — even  then,  Reginald,  as  the 
laughter  of  the  Lord  mocked  that  chained  Peasant's  anguish,  while  the 
alembics  of  Priestcraft  and  Kingcraft — fine  names  !  transmuted  the  blood 
and  tears  into  gold — even  then  I  saw  the  Peasant's  dusky  face  lighted  by 
a  sudden  fire.  I  saw  him  spring  from  the  dust,  and  trample  his  chains 
under  his  bleeding  feet.  Then,  Reginald,  I  witnessed  a  new  baptism. 
There  was  no  longer  a  Peasant  before  me,  but  a  Demon — a  Demon  raving 
on  his  wrongs,  and  bathing  his  scarred  limbs  in  blood,  the  blood  of  the 
rich,  the  noble,  the  blood  of  the  gifted  and  the  beautiful. — I  asked  the 
meaning  of  this  sight,  and  a  voice  answered, « It  is  the  new  Baptism,  which 
God  hath  in  store  for  the  poor.'  " — 

Paul  stood  erect,  his  hands  outstretched  toward  the  western  sky,  his 
features  stamped  with  a  sombre  enthusiam. 

"  Do  you  not  perceive,  Paul,  that  sentiments  like  these  will  apply  very 
dangerously  to  the  present  contest  between  the  Revolted  Colonies  and 
the  King  ?" 

"  The  King  !"  echoed  Paul,  in  a  tone  that  echoed  strangely  through  the 
stillness  of  the  forest— "  Always  the  King!  Speak  to  the  man  of  titles 
and  wealth,  of  the  poor  dying  by  millions,  dying  in  famine,  in  battle,  in 
plague,  and  you  are  answered  by  a  word,  '  The  King  V  Let  the  poor  die 
a  thousand  deaths  in  one,  let  them  suffer  such  slow  anguish  as  would 


252  PAUL  ARDENIIEIM  ;  OR, 

bring  the  blush  to  a  devil's  cheek,  but,  be  very  careful  of  the  King.  Be 
very  tender  with  the  Rich.  Let  no  rough  wind  blow  too  rudely  upon  the 
round  cheek  of  the  Priest.  Reginald,  Reginald,  it  is  enough  to  drive  one 
mad  to  see  these  Kings,  hedged  round  by  law,  by  custom  ;  made  holy  by 
Religion,  defended  by  ranks  of  nobles,  priests  and  rich  men ;  while  the 
Poor  are  turned  out  by  millions  into  the  dark  night  of  hopeless  toil,  and 
left  to  blunder  in  wounds  and  in  blindness  to  the  grave.  King !  Did  I 
think  that  the  earth,  one  hundred  years  from  this  hour,  would  be  cursed 
by  one  monster,  who,  calling  himself  King,  Priest,  or  Rich  Man,  only 
lives  to  trample  his  brothers  into  the  grave,  I  would  kneel  here,  and  be- 
seech that  God,  who  looks  not  unheedingly  upon  the  fall  of  a  sparrow,  to 
arouse  at  once  the  Demon  in  the  breast  of  the  slave,  and  let  the  New  Bap- 
tism at  once  begin." 

As  if  in  witness  of  the  sincerity  of  his  thought,  he  raised  his  right  hand 
to  heaven. 

"  There  is  force  in  your  words  ;  but  have  a  care !  Let  the  mob  once 
hear  and  believe  sentiments  like  these,  and  there  is  an  end  of  all  order,  all 
government.  In  the  place  of  Law,  we  will  have  anarchy,  and  for  King 
George  at  the  head  of  the  British  Nation,  we  will  only  have  Rebel  Wash- 
ington at  the  head  of  a  mob." 

"  Washington  !"  echoed  Paul — starting  as  though  some  memory  found 
a  voice  in  the  utterance  of  that  word. 

"  One  day,  resting  on  a  rock  which  yawned  over  an  abyss  amid  the 
Alps,  I  heard  that  name.  It  was  from  the  lips  of  a  wanderer,  who,  cast 
like  myself,  a  pilgrim  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  had  amid  his  journey ings 
traversed  this  land  of  the  New  World.  His  face  was  haggard  ;  his  attire, 
covered  with  dust,  scarce  concealed  the  sharp  outlines  of  his  withered 
frame.  That  haggard  face  was  suddenly  flushed,  that  withered  frame  as 
suddenly  dilated,  as  with  the  throbbings  of  a  new  life,  while  he  uttered  a 
name  which,  in  his  wanderings,  he  had  gathered  to  his  heart.  He  spoke 
of  battles,  of  dreary  marches  at  dead  of  night,  of  a  band  of  ragged  peasants 
pursued  by  the  armed  soldiers  of  a  King.  Of  farm-houses  fired  at  dead 
of  night  by  ruffian  soldiery,  and  of  old  men  butchered  on  the  threshold 
stone.  Of  virgins  torn  from  their  slumber  by  the  hand  of  brutal  outrage, 
and  dishonored — outraged — amid  the  shouts  of  armed  spectators.  Of  a 
band  of  mechanics  and  farmers,  who,  aroused  into  energy  by  these  accu- 
mulated wrongs,  assembled  one  day,  in  a  City  of  the  New  World,  and  in 
the  face  of  mankind,  and  by  the  name  of  God,  solemnly  declared  against 
the  King  and  his  hired  murderers.  Of  one  man,  who  kept  a  rebel  band 
together  in  the  face  of  unimaginable  perils — in  face  of  starvation,  naked- 
ness and  treason — who,  with  a  mob  of  half-naked  and  starving  peasants, 
confronted  the  splendid  armies  of  a  King,  and  drove  them  like  frightened 
sheep  before  the  hounds,  from  a  Christmas  revel,  at  a  town  called 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  VVISSAHIKON. 


253 


Trenton.  The  name  of  that  man  was  Washington.  The  story  touched 
me  deeply.    I  could  not  help  but  love  that  man !" 

"Paul — Paul,  can  I  indeed  believe  my  ears?  You  preach  treason  and 
sanctify  revolt  with  words  like  these?  I  cannot  hear  any  more  of  this — 
I  am  an  officer  of  the  King  !" 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  scarlet  uniform,  which  was  visible  through 
the  folds  of  his  hunting-shirt. 

"But  you  are  something  else,  my  dear  Reginald.  An  officer  of  the 
King — a  Lord — heir  to  a  Dukedom — something  more  even  than  these.  A 
Man!  You  have  blood  in  your  veins — does  it  bound  more  freely  when 
you  reflect  that,  hired  by  a  King,  to  do  the  work  of  murder,  it  is  now  your 
duty,  your  solemn  duty  to — cut  my  throat?" 

His  face  was  convulsed  with  mocking  laughter. 

"Ah — Paul — it  is  not  my  friend  that  speaks.  I  do  not  know  my  bro- 
ther's voice.    That  tone,  that  smile  do  not  belong  to  you — " 

"Washington  !"  cried  Paul,  gazing  into  the  waters  with  an  absent  glance. 
"It  is  a  new  name  in  the  history  of  the  world.  I  do  not  remember  it  in 
the  blood-red  volume  of  British  heraldry." 

"It  is  the  name  of  a  Rebel,"  exclaimed  Reginald,  with  a  frown;  "there 
is  a  price  upon  his  head — " 

"Shall  he  indeed  prove  worthy  of  his  task,  and  shine  forth  from  the 
clouds  of  Revolution,  the  Father  of  his  Country?  Or,  shall  he  sink  into 
the  degraded  herd  of  Kings,  and  gasp  his  last  breath  amid  the  curses  of  an 
enslaved  People,  leaving  only  these  words  as  a  record  of  his  life — 

"'I  founded  a  Dynasty  and  died.'  " 

"Tut — tut — Paul;  we've  had  enough  of  this  nonsense.  Before  Decem- 
ber, the  British  army  will  occupy  Philadelphia,  and — ha,  ha,  it  may  be  — 
the  head  of  Mister  Washington  will  adorn  the  gate  of  London !" 

And  the  handsome  Lord  graced  his  words  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

"There  was  a  man,  Reginald,  who  rose  from  the  Mob,  and  made  Eng- 
land great ;  for,  from  the  brute  form  of  vassaldom,  he  struck  into  rugged 
life,  the  image  of  a  People.  He  was  named  Cromwell.  He  died,  leaving 
the  greatness  of  England,  achieved  by  his  own  hand,  as  his  only  monu- 
ment. His  body  was  soon  after  rooted  from  its  grave,  his  limbs  torn  into 
fragments  —  nailed  to  gibbets — hurled  into  the  offal  of  the  streets.  This 
was  some  time  ago.  Can  you  tell  me,  Reginald,  which  name  looks  nobler 
now  in  history,  the  King  Charles  the  Second,  or  the  Brewer  Cromwell? 

"He  was  a  Traitor — a  Regicide." 

This  time  Reginald  frowned. 

"Yes,  it  is  true.  He  helped  to,  kill  a  King,  who  had  given,  not  long 
before,  his  best  friend  to  the  scaffold. — Ah,  it  is  enough  to  force  a  smile 
upon  lips  of  stone !  To  talk  of  treason  against  a  King.  There  is  no  such 
thing.  There  can  be  no  treason  committed  against  a  King,  for  Kings  are 
only  Kings  because  they  have  been  traitors  to  God  and  man. 


254  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR 

"  Washington !  Is  he  indeed  the  man  for  the  age,  or  must  the  People 
look  for  another?    Ah — 1  remember — the  name  in  the  Urn  " 

Paul  was  silent.    The  Last  Night  rushed  upon  his  memory  again. 

"Paul,  you  surely  do  not  imagine,  that  the  idle  Declaration,  promulgated 
by  the — ha.  ha — the  Continental  Congress,  will  ever  influence  the  destinies 
of  Europe  ?" 

"  A  Thought  never  dies,  Reginald.  The  Thought  of  the  Gospel  was 
uttered  by  certain  Galilean  fisherman,  in  the  face  of  all  the  kings  in  the 
world.  This  was  seventeen  hundred  years  ago.  And  now  that  Thought 
is  embodied  once  more — it  is  uttered  once  again  in  this  Declaration  Do 
you  think  that  Thought  has  lived  seventeen  hundred  years— lived  in  the 
face  of  kings  and  their  brutal  laws  — to  die  at  last  without  an  echo?  A. 
thought  that  lives,  is  only  a  deed  struggling  into  birth.  Can  you,  or  can 
any  man  foretel  the  deeds  which  that  Thought  will  create,  within  the  next 
hundred  years  ? 

"Even  now,  that  Thought  moves  in  the  heart  of  Europe,  like  a  living 
heart  in  the  breast  of  a  corpse." 

"  You  talk,  it  seems — ha,  ha — Paul,  you  must  pardon  the  smile.  But 
you  talk  of  a  Revolution  in  Europe.  Forgive  me  if  I  am  dull  of  com- 
prehension." 


CHAPTER  SIXTH. 

PAUL  TELLS  THE   STORY   OF   THE   LADY   WHOM   HE  MET  IN  THE  GARDENS 
OF   A   ROYAL  PALACE. 

"One  summer  day,  Reginald.  1  found  myself  lost  amid  the  mazes  of 
one  of  those  beautiful  gardens,  which  wear  royal  homes  upon  their  fragrant 
hearts.  It  was  in  France;  and  I  strayed  along  the  walks  of  the  Great 
Trianon.  There  were  deep  shadows  all  around  me,  and  a  breathless 
silence  reigned  on  every  side.  Shadows  that  were  broken  by  wandering 
rays  of  light,  silence  that  was  roused  into  gentle  music  by  the  lull  of  a 
distant  fountain.  ,  • 

"As  I  wandered  absently  along,  I  suddenly  beheld,  standing  in  my  path, 
the  image  of  a  beautiful  girl.  Her  loosened  robe  flowed  freely  around  the 
outlines  of  a  voluptuous  shape ;  and  her  pale  golden  hair  streamed  ia 
unbound  tresses  to  her  shoulders.    There  was  no  coronet  upon  her  hair, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


255 


no  gem  upon  her  plain  white  robe,  and  yet,  as  she  raised  her  mild  blue 
eyes  upon  me,  while  her  brow  grew  dark  as  with  wonder  at  my  intrusion 
upon  her  lonely  walk,  I  felt  that  I  stood  in  the  presence  of  a  lady  of  rank 
and  power.  I  stood  hesitating — my  eyes  enchained  by  her  beautiful  face 
—  while  I  was  conscious  that  my  presence  was  an  intrusion,  yes,  an  insult. 
Retreating  with  an  involuntary  bow,  I  cast  my  eyes  to  the  ground,  when 
her  voice  arrested  my  footsteps. 

"  'Stay  !'  she  cried,  'I  have  waited  for  you  !' 

"There  was  a  bewitching  music  in  her  voice.  At  the  sound  I  turned, 
and  stood  wondering  and  confused  before  her.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
look  of  dignity  mingled  with  fear,  which  she  cast  upon  me,  as  with  a  proud 
gesture  she  beckoned  me  to  approach. 

"'I  have  waited  for  you,'  she  said  once  more  with  a  haughty  accent — 
•I  have  been  told  that  you  can  read  the  future.' 

"Completely  bewildered,  I  knew  not  what  to  say.  It  did  not  occur  to 
me  that  she  had  taken  me  for  some  other  person;  perchance  one  of  those 
astrologers,  who,  at  that  time,  prevailed  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  French 
Court.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  me,  that  this  singular  meeting  was  the  espe- 
cial act  of  Providence — or  Destiny. 

"  'I  do  no'  ask  you  to  read  my  fate  in  the  Heavens — '  she  said,  while  a 
sad  smile  gave  a  new  beauty  to  her  countenance — 'You  need  not  consult 
the  stars,  in  order  to  tell  me  that  which  is  to  be.  But  for  three  nights  my 
slumbers  have  been  visited  by  a  dream — a  dream,  whether  sent  from  God 
or  from  the  Evil  One  you  can  best  determine.' 

"'Dreams  are  but  the  prophecies  of  the  soul,'  I  answered,  as  though  the 
words  had  been  uttered  in  my  ear  by  an  invisible  friend — '  When  awake, 
the  soul,  trammelled  by  the  flesh,  can  only  retain  the  impressions  of  the 
Past.  But  it  is  in  sleep  that  the  Future  becomes  to  her  a  Memory.  It  is 
in  sleep  that  1  he  soul  rises  into  her  immortal  power,  and  forgets  all  con- 
sciousness of  time,  and  knows  by  name,  neither  Past  nor  Future.  In 
sleep  the  past  and  future  are  one  —  then  the  Soul,  indeed  starting  from  the 
trammels  of  flesh,  rises  into  the  atmosphere  of  immortality.' 

"Even  now  i  see  that  young  countenance,  so  fair,  so  delicate  in  com- 
plexion, with  its  mild  blue  eyes  and  pale  golden  hair!    She  was  like 

Catharine-  ah  !    That  word  speaks  to  me  of  Home !    Only  there  was 

never  a  frown  on  Catharine's  brow,  never  one  gleam  of  pride  in  her  calm, 
deep  eyes. 

"'Listen,  while  I  repeat  my  dream,'  exclaimed  the  unknown  lady;  and 
while  I  stood  wondering  and  dumb,  she  spoke  in  a  low  silvery  accent, 
which  now  quivered  with  fear,  and  again  grew  faint,  almost  inaudible 
with  preternatural  awe. 

"  I  do  not  repeat  this  dream,  because  it  is  so  wild  and  strange — no  !  no  ! 
But  I  cannot  banish  it  from  my  eyes — it  is  ever  before  me — even  now  it 
is  there,  between  me  and  the  sunlight." 


256 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


"  With  an  accent  of  terror  that  I  can  never  forget,  she  turned  away  from 
a  flood  of  light,  which  came  gushing  through  an  interval  in  the  foliage. 

"  '  It  is  there — drawn  distinctly  upon  the  shadows — there  '  Do  you 
not  see  it — that  hideous  phantom  V 

"  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  I  could  see  her  cheek  grow 
pale  as  death. 

"  '  I  was  wandering  along  a  lofty  hall,  hung  with  tapestry,  beautiful  as 
the  rainbow  of  thje  summer  evening,  and  adorned  with  images  of  pure 
marble,  and  pictures,  which  did  not  seem  pictures,  but  living  souls,  im- 
prisoned in  canvass.  I  was  alone,  and  as  I  went  straying  through  that 
chamber — whose  magnificence  even  now  bewilders  me — I  heard  voices 
murmuring  my  name,  with  accents  of  idolatrous  praise ;  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  was  the  Queen  of  a  World,  and  that  the  very  sunlight  shone  for 
me.  The  tapestry  bore  my  image  in  a  thousand  forms — my  face  was  in 
every  statue — the  very  flowers  seen  through  the  casements,  bloomed  for 
me — for  me  alone.  Oh,  it  was  a  bewildering  dream,  and,  grown  mad  with 
the  consciousness  of  beauty  and  power,  fired  by  the  accents  of  the  flatter- 
ing voices,  which  called  me  "  Goddess — Divine  Queen,"  I  raised  my 
hand  toward  the  lofty  ceiling,  and — it  makes  the  blood  freeze  in  my  veins 
— defied  God — yes,  1  defied  God — I  dared  Almighty  power  to  crush  my 
power,  or  wither  my  beauty.' 

"  The  beautiful  girl  once  more  hid  her  face  with  her  hands.  It 
was  not  until  some  moments  had  elapsed  that  she  gathered  strength 
to  proceed. 

" '  Even  then,  as  I  stood  in  the  act  of  blasphemy,  with  my  hand 
uplifted,  and  the  words  of  defiance  on  my  lips,  my  attention  was  attracted 
by  a  window,  which  was  veiled,  not  by  rich  folds  of  purple  tapestry,  but 
by  a  black  cloth,  drooping  without  a  fold  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor. 
An  impulse  that  I  could  not  comprehend,  hurried  me  to  the  window,  and 
forced  me  with  my  own  hands  to  draw  aside  the  dismal  curtain.  I 
beheld  ' 

"  She  shuddered. 

"  4 1  beheld,  not  a  far-extending  prospect  of  gardens  and  fountains,  em- 
bosomed in  the  shade  of  lofty  trees,  and  adorned  with  palaces  of  marble. 
No  !  It  was  a  wide  plain,  in  the  heart  of  a  great  city, — a  wide  plain, 
framed  by  huts  and  palaces,  and  crowded  with  one  black  mass  of  heads, 
that  met  my  eye.  Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  were  gathered  there; 
it  was  an  awful  sea  of  life,  undulating  to  and  fro  with  a  ceaseless  motion. 
The  air  was  steeped  in  a  dead  stillness,  only  broken  by  a  hoarse  murmur. 

" 4  Gazing  upon  this  countless  multitude,  I  beheld,  in  the  centre  of  that 
sea  of  upturned  faces,  the  object  around  which  it  undulated  in  unceasing 
waves. 

"  'That  object  was  very  far  away  from  where  I  stood,  and  yet  I  saw  it 
distinctly,  and  drank  in  every  minute  detail. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


257 


"  '  It  was  a  platform,  surmounted  by  two  upright  pieces  of  timber,  con- 
nected at  the  top  b)'  a  horizontal  beam.  At  the  foot  of  one  of  these  up- 
right pieces  of  timber  was  a  block  ;  near  that  block,  a  heap  of  sawdust, 
and  standing  upon  the  sawdust,  a  half-naked  figure,  whose  bared  arm  was 
raised  above  his  head,  while  his  hand  clutched  a  rope.  That  rope  was 
attached  to  an  axe,  which  glimmered  near  the  horizontal  beam. 

"  *  Even  now  I  see  it ;  that  black  structure  rising  over  the  sea  of  heads 
against  the  cold  blue  sky  !' 

"  The  young  woman  pressed  her  hands  upon  her  breast,  as  though  to 
still  the  mad  pulsations  of  her  heart,  while  her  expanded  eyes  glared  upon 
the  vacant  air,  and  her  lips  murmured  in  a  tone  almost  inaudible — '  It  is 
there — there  !    The  axe  glitters  in  that  passing  ray  !' 

"After  a  moment,  growing  more  composed,  she  continued: 

"  «  Suddenly,  a  lane  was  made  through  this  immense  multitude  ;  a  lane 
which  reached  from  its  very  edge  "to  the  foot  of  the  platform.  There  was 
an  unnatural  stillness  upon  the  scene  ;  I  could  hear  the  rolling  of  -vheeis, 
and  presently  saw  the  head  of  a  horse  rising  above  the  crowd  That 
horse  was  attached  to  a  rude  vehicle,  in  which  stood  a  solitary  iigure,  a 
half-naked  woman,  whose  dishevelled  hair  flowed  over  her  bared  bosom. 
Whenever  I  attempted  to  gaze  upon  her  face,  a  mist  came  over  my  eyes: 
but  I  saw  her  form  ;  it  was  very  beautiful — the  sun  shone  over  a  bosom 
white  as  snow. 

rt  '  The  rude  vehicle,  rolling  slowly  on  with  a  grating  sound,  was  bearing 
this  lovely  woman  toward  the  platform. 

"  '  I  could  not  turn  my  gaze  away  from  her  form ;  my  heart  bled  for  her 
— she  seemed  so  terribly  alone,  in  the  midst  of  that  countless  multitude. 
And  as  she  came  on,  the  stillness  deepened — now  and  then  a  sudden  cry 
was  heard — a  short,  wild  ejaculation — and  all  was  still  again. 

"  *  Oh,  how  earnestly  I  endeavored  to  chase  away  that  mist  which 
came  between  my  sight  and  the  face  of  this  lovely  woman !  It  was  in 
vain — I  could  not  trace  one  line  of  her  countenance — her  hair  waved  over 
her  shoulders,  and  her  bosom  shone  in  the  sun,  but  her  face  was 
a  shadow. 

"  *  The  vehicle  reached  the  foot  of  the  platform.  They  had  taken  her 
from  my  view,  but  in  a  moment  she  appeared  again.  They  were  leading 
her  up  the  steps — I  saw  her  stand  upon  the  platform,  near  the  half-naked 
man,  her  white  bosom  gleaming  in  the  sun. 

"'The  breathless  stillness  of  the  multitude  grew  deeper. 

"  4 1  was  gazing  at  her  fair  round  neck,  when— O  God  !  O  God — the 
hand  of  the  half-naked  man  Was  laid  upon  it — he  was  forcing  her  upon 
her  knees.  Hark  !  A  cry  of  smothered  agony — her  neck  rests  upon  the 
block,  and  her  long  hair  streams  over  the  saw-dust. 

"  1  The  stillness  becomes  more  intense. 

"  '  There  is  a  low  brooding  murmur — the  axe  is  glimmering  there  over 

17 


258  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

the  white  neek  of  the  lovely  woman — it  falls — there  is  a  torrent  of  blood 
pouring  upon  the  saw-dust  from  a  headless  trunk — there  is  a  head  rolling 
over  the  floor  of  the  platform,  the  long  hair  cumbered  with  blood- 
stained dust ! 

"  '  The  silence  of  the  crowd  is  broken  at  last.  One  horrible  yell,  swelled 
by  ten  thousand  voices,  peals  into  the  sky — it  was  as  though  the  damned, 
released  from  their  torment  for  a  while,  had  come  to  hold  their  infernal 
jubilee  in  the  light  of  day. 

"  '  That  half-naked  man  seized  the  severed  head,  and  holding  it  by  the 
hair,  exposed  the  face  to  the  gaze  of  the  crowd.  The  sun  shone  vividly 
upon  it — writhing  with  the  last  pang,  I  saw  it, — with  the  glow  of  life  and 
the  blue  tinge  of  death  struggling  upon  its  cheeks — at  last  I  saw  and  knew 
that  face. 

"  '  Behold,'  cried  the  half-naked  man,  tossing  it  in  the  light — '  Behold 
the  head  of  the  Traitress — the  last  of  an  accursed  brood — Marie 
Antoinette  V 

"  <  It  was  my  own  face  which  I  saw,  held  by  the  blood-stained  hair  in 
the  light  of  the  sun.' 

"  She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  pressed  her  delicate  right  hand  to  her 
forehead — her  cheek  was  livid,  her  lips  colorless. 

"  1  Dumb  with  horror,  I  started  from  the  window,  and  turned  my  gaze 
once  more  upon  the  magnificence  of  the  lofty  hall.  The  statues  looked 
pure  and  beautiful,  the  pictures  glowed  with  rosy  warmth,  the  tapes- 
try, trembling  gently,  seemed  like  a  thousand  rainbows  joined  in  one. 
But  I  could  not  banish  that  terrible  scene — I  saw,  wherever  I  turned,  the 
bleeding  head,  held  by  the  dishevelled  hair,  with  the  last  pang  quivering 
over  the  face. 

"  ■  Then  a  confused  cry  broke  on  the  silence — a  crowd  of  half-naked  and 
bloody  forms  came  rushing  into  the  lofty  hall,  staining  the  white  statues 
with  their  crimsoned  hands,  and  reeling  with  demoniac  gestures  over  the 
marble  floor. 

"  '  Shuddering  and  cold,  I  shrunk  within  the  folds  of  the  tapestry,  and 
saw  one  form  taller  than  the  rest,  dragging  a  headless  body  over  the^floor. 
It  was  the  body  of  a  naked  woman,  with  blood  upon  her  breast,  and  the 
print  of  brutal  feet  upon  her  beautiful  limbs.  While  it  was  dragged  along 
the  floor,  the  broken  arm  grasped  by  the  ruffian's  hand — there  was  a 
head  tossing  to  and  fro,  under  the  feet  of  the  crowd— once  I  saw  it,  as  it 
whirled  by  me,  the  long  hair  streaming  in  the  air.  It  was  horribly  dis- 
figured, clotted  all  over  with  drops  of  blood — but  it  was  my  own  face 
which  I  saw.' 

"As  these  words  fell  from  her  colorless  lips,  her  hands  drooped  by  her 
side,  and  her  hair  seemed  to  rise  upon  her  forehead.  Never  have  I  beheld, 
even  in  the  wildest  creation  of  the  artist's  pencil,  a  more  impressive  picture 
of  unnatural  fear.    For  some  moments  she  stood  gazing  fixedly  into  my 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  259 

face,  and  the  sunshine  stole  in  a  subdued  glow  over  her  pale  golden  hair 
and  colorless  cheek. 

"'For  three  times  have  I  beheld  this  vision,'  she  said  in  a  faltering 
voice — 4  Three  nights  in  succession  it  has  visited  my  couch.  *  *  *  Thou 
canst  read  the  future — read  for  me  this  terrible  dream  *  *  *  tell  me — ' 

"She  was  silent.  Amazed,  confounded,  I  knew  not  how  to  answer  her. 
Was  it  indeed  a  woman  of  royal  race  that  I  beheld,  or  some  frenzied 
daughter  of  the  poor  ? 

"  '  You  desire  reward,'  she  exclaimed,  '  take  this  ring  and  tell  me—' 

"  Scarce  knowing  where  I  stood,  I  took  the  ring  and  placed  it  on  my 
finger,  while  my  eye  was  riveted  by  the  surpassing  whiteness  of  her 
neck. 

"  Even  as  I  gazed,  that  neck  was  encircled  by  a  livid  line — I  felt  the 
words  that  I  uttered  before,  rising  again  to  my  lips. 

"Dreams  are  but  the  Prophecies  of  the  Soul.  When  awake,  the  soul, 
trammelled  by  flesh,  can  only  retain  the  impressions  of  the  Past.  It  is  in 
sleep  that  the  Future  becomes  to  her  a  Memory." 

Paul  ceased,  and  wiped  the  moisture  from  his  forehead. 

Reginald,  utterly  absorbed  by  the  singular  narrative,  sat  with  his  elbows 
placed  upon  his  knees,  his  cheeks  resting  on  his  hands,  and  his.  eye  fixed 
upon  the  stream.  Once  or  twice,  as  Paul  went  on  in  his  history,  Reginald 
hadjooked  up,  and  been  startled  by  the  unnatural  excitement  of  that  bronzed 
visage.    He  shrank  from  the  sight  of  those  dazzling  eyes. 

Paul  was  silent,  but  some  moments  elapsed  ere  he  could  rouse  himself 
from  the  profound  reverie  into  which  he  was  plunged. 

At  last,  raising  his  eyes,  he  beheld  Paul  standing  near,  his  arms  folded 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  undimpled  stream.  The  unnatural  pallor 
of  his  face  only  made  his  eyes  seem  more  wildly  lustrous.  His  forehead 
was  bare — it  shone  in  the  sun,  and  the  wind  agitated  the  locks  of  his  dark 
brown  hair. 

"He  looks  like  a  prophet  or  a  madman!"  thought  Reginald. 

"Why,  you  are  pale,  my  brother,"  cried  Paul,  turning  suddenly  round. 
"  There  is  no  color  in  your  face.  Can  it  be  that  you  give  credence  to  an 
idle  ifc^end  such  as  I  have  told  ?" 

y  But  the  woman  whom  you  saw  in  the  gardens  of  the  Great  Trianon," 
exclaimed  Reginald,  in  a  voice  that  was  faint  and  tremulous.  "Was  she 
indeed  the  Queen  ^  was  she  indeed  Marie  Antoinette  ?  Do  you  think  her 
dream  will  ever  become  reality  ?  That  the  people  of  France  will  lay  the 
head  of  their  Queen  upon  the  block  ?" 

A  smile  darted  over  Paul's  face. 

"There  was  once  a  King  called  Charles  the  First,  and  a  Brewer  named 
Cromwell — "  he  said. 
Reginald  was  silent. 


260  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

The  incident  related  by  Paul,  whose  dark  eye  shone  as  with  inspiration, 
sank  deep  in  his  heart.  With  an  involuntary  shudder,  he  gathered  his 
blue  hunting-frock  over  his  red  uniform. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTH. 

THE    BROKEN  BUT  NOT  DIVIDED  COIN. 

N  But  come,  Reginald — the  sun  is  declining  toward  the  western  horizon — 
I  must  go  home.'''' 

Paul  uttered  the  italicized  words  with  an  accent  of  profound  sadness. 

"  My  way  lies  in  this  direction  :"  he  pointed  to  the  north-west — "  Be- 
yond those  woods  I  shall  soon  learn  the  secret  of  my  fate.  Father — 
Catharine — " 

"And  mine  in  this," — Reginald  pointed  to  the  south-west — "within  an 
hour  I  hope  to  behold  my  lady-love." 

The  color  came  to  his  cheek,  and  there  was  a  joyous  smile  on  the 
face  of  the  handsome  soldier. 

"Imagine  the  face  of  my  d£ar  father,  when  he  hears  that  his  dutiful  son 
and  the  Baronet's  daughter,  separated  from  each  other  in  the  woods  of 
Yorkshire,  have  met  in  the  wilderness  of  Wissahikon.  Ha !  ha  !  his  face 
will  present  a  picture  in  whieh  indignation  and  laughter  struggle  for  the 
mastery." 

He  raised  his  rifle,  and  placed  the  cap  upon  his  chestnut  curls. 

"You  will  not  marry  this  lady  without  your  father's  consent?" 

"  I'faith,  you  are  altogether  too  sober,  brother  Paul !  Wandering  amirl 
these  delicious  solitudes  together,  we  will  leave  'marriage' — 'settlement,' 
etcetera,  to  the  old  folks.  It  is  an  awkward  word,  that  'marriage.'  /  never 
yet  could  think  of  it  while  watching  my  own  image  in  the  eyes  of  a  beau- 
tiful girl." 

"  But,  Reginald,  you  would  not  think  of  committing  %wrong — "  There 
was  a  profound  sadness  in  the  countenance  of  Paul. 

"  While  sitting  beside  a  lovely  woman,  I  would  not  like  to  think  of  any 
thing  but  her — even  if  I  could.  Do  not  talk  of  '  thinking'  in  such  a  case, 
friend  Paul.  What  matters  all  our  thoughts — are  we  not  driven  onward 
by  a  power  that  we  cannot  see,  and  certainly  do  not  comprehend  ?  Observe 
that  flower,  floating  on  the  bosom  of  the  stream — look  how  smoothly  it 
glides  onward.    Can  you  foretel  the  fate  of  that  flower,  Paul  ?  Whether 

/ 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


261 


it  will  lodge  on  the  right  bank  or  the  left,  or  be  drowned  in  the  waterfall 
below  1  Or  whether  it  will  be  '  fished  out '  of  the  stream  by  some  truant 
school-boy,  armed  with  a  stick,  with  a  yard  of  thread  and  a  pin-hook  at  the 
end  ?" 

The  quiet  dell  echoed  with  the  somewhat  boisterous  laughter  of  the 
young  soldier. 

Paul  turned  upon  him  with  a  stare  of  wonder. 

' Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Reginald — "You  with  all  your  thought  cannot 
change  the  course  of  that  flower.  Nor  can  the  flower  itself  alter  its  course 
one  tittle.  Paul,  our  life  is  precisely  like  the  flower — we  drop  from  an- 
other world,  perchance  from  some  branch  of  an  immortal  tree — the  stream 
that  bears  us  is  called  Fate,  Destiny,  Providence.  If  it  leaves  us  on  the 
right  bank,  we  wither ;  if  on  the  left,  we  die ;  or  if  it  carries  us  over  the 
falls,  we  are  lost.  Even  should  we  escape  the  right  bank  and  the  left, 
and  ride  safely  through  the  whirlpool,  here  comes  some  truant  Chance,  and 
'  fishes  us  up'  with  something  full  as  ridiculous  as  a  stick,  a  yard  of  thread 
and  a  pin-hook." 

Paul  looked  upon  the  glowing  face  of  Reginald — marked  his  athletic 
form  —  his  lip  curling  in  a  smile — his  cheek  flushed  with  vigorous  physical 
beauty — and  uttered  a  sigh. 

It  was  a  moment  ere  he  answered  him. 

"  It  is  one  thing,  Reginald,  to  plunge  madly  into  wrong,  and  call  it  Fate, 
and  it  is  another  thing  to  feel  ourselves  every  hour  whirled  by  an  invisible 
hand  toward  some  horrible  crime — whirled  onward,  despite  all  your  strug- 
gles, your  prayers,  your  tears.    That  indeed  is  Destiny — Fate — " 

"  But  she  is  so  very  beautiful,  Paul — lips  that  pout  with  passion  ;  eyes 
that  fire  your  blood ;  wavy  hair,  that  makes  your  fingers  mad  to  clasp  it;  a 
step  that  at  once  glides  over  and  spurns  the  earth ;  cheeks  whose  clear 
brown  is  ripened  by  a  rose-bud  flush. — Ah  !  Paul,  Youth  and  Love  mixed 
in  one  cup  make  such  a  bewitching  draught,  that  one  cannot  help  but 
drink  it!" 

"  Reginald,"  said  a  voice,  that  seemed  wrung  from  the  very  heart — 
u  You  could  not,  on  any  pretence,  do  wrong  to  this  girl,  who  has  trusted 
in  you  f" 

As  he  spoke,  Paul  stood  with  folded  arms,  his  melancholy  face  invested 
with  a  wild  spiritual  grandeur.  Reginald,  glowing  before  him,  with  flushed 
cheeks,  shadowed  by  chesnut  curls,  presented  a  striking  ideal  of  physical 
beauty. 

"  Do  wrong  to  her — ha,  ha  !  I  don't  think  of  it !  You  tell  me  that  you 
have  seen  the  world,  and  yet  talk  so  gravely  about  an  affair  of  this  kind? 
I  love  her,  Paul,  would  die  for  her,  but  " 

The  sentence  was  broken  by  an  ejaculation  from  the  lips  of  Paul. 
Had  it  been  completed,  the  entire  thread  of  this  history  would  have  been 
changed. 


262 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"But"  1  cannot  wait  for  marriage,  he  would  have  said,  when  the 

exclamation  broke  the  sentence. 

«  She  is  beautiful  ?"  cried  Paul — "  Her  name  ?" 
A  strange  name,  Paul — altogether  picturesque  and  romantic.  1  Leola!'  " 

"  *  Leola  !' — It  is  like  music  heard  at  dead  of  night,  over  the  waters  of  a 
still  lake.    I  never  called  her  by  name — "  he  added,  with  a  sigh. 

"When  will  we  meet  again?"  exclaimed  Reginald,  as  he  stood  with 
rifle  on  his  shoulder,  ready  to  depart. 

"In  the  depth  of  the  woods,  near  the  point  where  the  Wissahikon 
empties  in  the  Schuylkill,  there  stood,  some  time  ago,  a  colossal  tree,  its 
trunk  like  a  column  of  some  pagan  temple,  its  wide-branching  limbs  leafless 
and  withered.  It  stood  desolate  and  alone,  amid  the  glad  summer  trees, 
a  sad  image  of  Aged  Despair,  glaring  in  the  face  of  Youthful  Hope.  It 
stood  near  a  rock,  imprinted  with  the  mark  of  a  human  foot  beside  a  cloven 
hoof — and  stood  where  the  setting  sun  always  shed  its  last  and  kindliest 
glow.  We  will  meet  there  at  sunset,  Reginald.  You  will  tell  me  of 
your  love — " 

"  And  you  will  tell  me  how  you  went  home,  and  was  welcomed  by  your 
father's  blessing  and  your  sister's  kiss." 

Paul  turned  his  face  away;  Reginald  saw  his  form  agitated,  but  could 
not  look  upon  the  expression  of  his  countenance. 

"Father — Sister — "  these  words  were  audible  amid  the  muttered  ejacu- 
lations which  came  from  the  lips  of  Paul. 

"  At  sunset,  under  the  blasted  pine,"  he  said,  raising  his  face,  and  abruptly 
turned  away,  his  mantle  floating  from  his  shoulder,  and  his  plume  rising 
between  the  eye  of  Reginald  and  the  sun. 

But  as  suddenly  turning  again,  he  placed  his  hand  within  his  breast, 
and  drew  forth  a  broken  coin,  attached  to  a  chain  of  delicately  worked  steel. 

"  You  remember  this,  Reginald  ?" 

At  once,  Reginald  dashed  his  rifle  to  the  ground,  and  placing  his  hand 
within  his  hunting-shirt  and  red  uniform,  drew  forth  a  similar  fragment, 
attached  also  to  a  chain  of  fine  steel. 

"I  have  always  worn  it  since  that  hour!" 

These  fragments  were  the  separate  halves  of  a  silver  shilling,  stamped 
with  the  image  of  George  the  Second,  and  bearing  date  1732.  The  half 
which  Paul  held  in  the  light,  bore  the  figures  17;  while  on  Reginald's 
fragment  the  figures  32  were  distinctly  seen. 

"You  remember  the  night,  Reginald,  when  we  broke  this  coin,  in  the 
woods  of  Lyndulfe,  and  swore  to  be  as  brothers  to  each  other,  until 
death  ?" 

"I  have  never  forgotten  it,  Paul — " 

"In  case  one  of  us  should,  at  any  time,  be  placed  in  a  position  of  ex. 
tremity,  he  should  send  to  the  other  his  fragment  of  coin—" 

"And  the  one  who  received  this  coin,  should  hasten  to  his  brother's  aid, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON 


263 


in  face  of  all  dangers,  regardless  of  all  other  ties  or  obligations.  I  remember 
it,  Paul!" 

"Join  hands  with  me,  Reginald,  and  let  us  in  the  sight  of  God  renew 
our  pledge  of  Brotherhood." 

"  '  We  will  be  true  to  each  other,  and  on  no  extremity  nor  danger  desert 
each  other,  but  cherish  for  ever  the  solemn  symbol  of  the  broken,  but  not 
divided  coin, — broken,  but  not  divided,  for  its  separate  pieces  are  moved 
by  two  hearts  joined  in  one,  by  the  holy  tie  of  Brotherhood.' " 

"Brother  Paul !" 

"Brother  Reginald?" 

Their  hands  were  clasped ;  their  eyes,  centred  on  each  other's  faces, 
were  moistened  with  tears.  In  this  dark  world  there  are  many  horrible 
realities,  but  it  seems  to  me,  that  the  friendship— the  Brotherhood— of  two 
true-hearted  men,  is  among  those  things  which  make  the  angels  less  sor- 
rowful for  the  crimes  of  earth,  and  even  wake  the  cold  malice  of  a  devil's 
soul  into  something  akin  to  love. 

"At  sunset,  under  the  blasted  pine  !"  cried  Paul,  as  he  turned  away. 

Reginald  gazed  after  him,  as  he  threaded  his  way  among  the  rocks  on 
the  western  bank  of  the  stream.  He  saw  him  windhlg  near  the  waterside, 
his  form  half-hidden  by  the  thickly  clustered  bushes,  while  the  sunlight 
shone  only  upon  his  hair,  surmounted  by  the  dark  cap  and  the  slender 
plume. 

«  There  goes  as  noble  a  heart  as  ever  throbbed,  and  some  sorrow  that  I 
cannot  comprehend,  crushes  him  to  the  earth !" 

At  this  moment  Paul  appeared  in  sight  again,  standing  upon  a  rock, 
some  distance  up  the  stream,  which  received  the  warm  sunshine  on  its 
breast.  His  face,  thrown  in  strong  profile,  stood  out  from  the  shadows  of 
the  distant  woods,  and  glowed  in  vivid  light.  His  arms  were  outspread ; 
he  seemed  absorbed  in  some  thought  of  voiceless  prayer. 

'  He  is  praying  that  he  may  behold  his  father's  white  hairs,  and  be 
welcomed  by  a  sister's  kiss,"  muttered  Reginald — "Ah!  He  descends 
from  the  rock, — he  stands  upon  the  fallen  tree,  which  reaches  from  sltore 
to  shore — with  his  eyes  turned  unceasingly  to  the  north-west,  he  crosses 
the  stream.  *  *  *  He  is  lost  in  the  shadows  of  the  woods,  and  I  am  alone." 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west,  and  the  shadows  came  thicker  over 
the  dell.  There  are  nooks  beside  the  Wissahikon,  where  noonday  is  as 
twilight,  and  evening  wears  the  darkness  of  midnight.  This  dell,  opening 
suddenly  upon  the  stream,  as  from  a  cleft  in  the  forest,  with  a  wall  of 
leaves  on  either  hand,  was  full  of  cheerful  light  at  the  midday  hour,  but 
no  sooner  did  the  day  begin  to  decline,  than  it  was  rendered  sad  and 
gloomy  by  a  twilight  shadow.  True,  there  was  a  joy  in  its  very  sadness, 
a  holy  calm  in  its  very  gloom,  but  as  Reginald  glanced  around  him,  he  felt 
the  quiet,  the  shadow  of  the  place,  impress  every  sense  with  a  feeling 
of  awe. 

4" . 


264 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"I  am  alone,"  he  murmured,  gazing  now  at  a  wandering  burst  of  sun- 
shine, now  upon  the  waveless  stream,  brooding  under  a  veil  of  shadow — 
»  Alone !" 

That  word  startled  the  silence  with  a  strange  echo.  Alone  with  his 
own  soul,  alone  with  the  memory  that  pointed  terribly  to  the  Past,  with 
the  hope  that  trembled  amid  its  gladness,  as  it  looked  to  the  future. 

There  was  a  chaos  of  thoughts  crowding  over  the  brain  of  the  gallant 
soldier. 

As  if  in  the  attempt  to  banish  thought,  he  began  to  hum  a  merry  air, 
which  he  had  heard  at  some  boisterous  festival  of  the  camp  ;  but  it  came 
faintly  from  his  lips,  and  suddenly  died  away  without  an  echo. 

He  beheld  the  dove  that  had  been  killed  by  his  shot;  it  lay  near  his 
feet,  with  its  head  resting  between  the  folded  wings,  and  the  red  stain  upon 
its  bosom.  The  young  man  raised  it,  pressed  its  plumage  gently,  and 
murmured  a  single  word — 

"  Madeline  !" 

Then  the  Last  Night  rushed  upon  his  memory  in  vivid  and  distinct 
details.  He  saw  the  white  form  kneeling  in  the  lonely  chamber,  he  heard 
the  voice  pleading  for  mercy,  in  the  name  of  God — he  bared  the  young 
breast,  and  fell  back  affrighted  and  cold  before  a  fatal  Revelation.  Thus 
all  the  scenes  of  that  fearful  night  came  crowding  upon  him  at  once,  until 
he  was  affrighted  and  cold  again. 

"  Would  to  God  I  had  never  entered  the  confines  of  this  valley !  Well 
do  I  remember  the  phantom  that  warned  me  back — it  is  before  me  now — 
I  cannot  banish  its  words  from  my  ears.  How  carelessly  I  came  to  the 
farm-house  on  that  night — the  cup  was  drugged — the  outrage  planned — 
but,  like  a  madman  chased  by  the  frenzies  of  his  own  brain,  I  fled  from  the 
house  and  from  the  Wissahikon  in  the  daybreak  hour.  Madeline  !  Ma- 
deline !" 

It  was  his  Dark  Hour. 

His  changing  color  and  wandering  eye,  and  brow  damp  with  moisture, 
all  betrayed  the  force  of  his  emotion. 

"  I  have  not  seen  the  Merchant  who  was  entrusted  by  my  father  with 
this  secret,  since  I  left  Philadelphia.  Has  he  obtained  any  clue  to  the 
mystery?  Does  Madeline  live?  I  dare  not  question  the  people  of  the 
valley — they  might  recognise  me,  and  suspect  me  of  the  murder.  Better 
that  suspicion,  ay,  much  better  the  guilt  of  murder  itself,  than — " 

His  voice  died  away  in  a  murmur;  his  face,  so  fascinating  in  its  manly 
beauty,  was  terribly  agitated. 

"Leola !"  he  exclaimed,  and  the  cloud  passed  from  his  brow. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  265 


CHAPTER  EIGHTH. 

PAUL  GOES  TOWARD  HIS  HOME. 

Paul  crossed  the  Wissahikon  by  means  of  the  fallen  tree,  and  ascending 
the  opposite  bank,  plunged  into  the  shadow  of  the  woods.  As  he  threaded 
his  way  over  the  earth,  strewn  with  withered  pine  leaves,  while  the  huge 
trunks  were  dimly  seen  on  every  side,  his  face  was  still  turned  to  the 
north-west. 

He  strode  rapidly  onward,  until  the  sombre  depths  and  unnatural  still- 
ness of  the  pines  was  succeeded  by  a  thicket  full  of  flowers  and  sunshine, 
with  green  boughs  stretching  across  his  path  at  every  step.  But  the  sun- 
light that  danced  so  merrily  among  the  leaves  and  blossoms,  did  not  chase 
the  settled  gloom  from  his  face,  nor  did  the  luxurious  atmosphere  of  June, 
steeped  in  fragrance  and  musical  with  the  hum  of  bees,  call  one  glow  of 
rapture  to  his  cheek.  Ever  turning  his  eyes  to  the  north-west,  he  threaded 
the  windings  of  the  faintly  defined  pathway,  while  the  gloom  came  darker 
over  his  face. 

It  was  a  pathway  rarely  trodden;  it  led  among  the  wildest  recesses  of 
the  woods,  and  led  toward  the  Home  of  Paul.  In  a  few  moments  he 
would  be  there ;  he  would  behold  the  old  Block-house  smiling  under  its 
garmenture  of  vines  and  flowers. 

Paul  felt  his  knees  bend  under  him,  and  wiped  the  cold  moisture  from  his 
brow.  Every  moment  brought  him  nearer  to  that  Home  ;  soon  he  would 
know  the  worst. 

His  thoughts  became  vague  and  dream-like.  He  was  again  a  wanderer 
over  the  face  of  the  earth.  Again  he  stood  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  an  un- 
known and  friendless  man,  alone  in  a  desert  of  strange  people.  Again  he 
trod  the  soil  of  Germany,  and  paused  for  a  while  amid  the  chivalric  student 
people  of  Heidelberg,  and  heard  their  earnest  songs,  chorused  by  the 
clash  of  swords,  swelling  deep  and  far  over  the  bosom  of  the  Rhine.  Then 
he  was  on  the  way  that  leads  through  a  dark  wood,  to  the  summit  of  a 
craggy  hill,  from  whence  you  may  drink  in  the  valley  of  the  Arno,  with 
Florence  glittering  on  its  breast.  He  was  in  Rome,  at  dead  of  night,  in 
the  great  Temple  of  St.  Peter's,  with  only  a  single  light  burning  through 
its  profound  gloom — alone  at  dead  of  night  in  that  great  temple,  whose 
dome  is  itself  a  sky.  He  was  in  Rome,  in  the  Catacombs — the  city  of  the 
dead  sunken  under  the  feet  of  the  living  millions — he  knelt  by  the  graves 
of  martyrs,  and,  oppressed  by  the  memories  of  the  place,  felt  his  soul  glide 
away  into  the  New  World,  where  the  father  and  the  sister  were  waiting 
for  him. 


/ 

266  PAUL  ARDENHETM;  OR, 

And  with  these  thoughts  of  his  pilgrimage  over  Europe — a  pilgrimage 
accomplished  on  foot,  with  but  little  money  and  no  friends,  save  those 
whom  his  sad  visage  won  by  the  way — there  came  other  and  wilder  thoughts 
of  adventures  too  strange  for  belief. 

He  thought  of  the  night  when,  belated  among  the  Hartz  mountains,  whose 
abrupt  cliffs  and  pines  and  shadows  reminded  him  of  his  own  Wissahikon, 
a  voice  spoke  to  him,  and — 

Paul  dared  not  pursue  the  thought.  He  shuddered  as  it  crossed  his 
mind. 

And  as  he  banished  the  memory  of  the  Hartz  mountains,  the  thought 
of  his  Father,  his  Sister,  his  Home  came  back  with  overwhelming  force. 

"  I  cannot  go  on !"  he  cried,  and  flung  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  wild  poplar 
tree — "  How  can  I  look  upon  my  father's  face,  when  there  is  Perjury 
written  upon  mine?" 

Again  the  cold  moisture  gathered  on  his  brow — he  raised  his  right  hand 
to  dash  it  away — when  his  eye  assumed  an  unnatural  brightness,  and  he 
gazed  upon  the  half-raised  hand  with  a  look  of  singular  interest. 

"  This  hand — this  hand — "  he  muttered,  and  springing  from  the  seat  at 
the  foot  of  the  wild  poplar,  hurried  on  his  way. 

There  was  a  strip  of  wood  to  be  passed,  a  lane  to  be  crossed,  a  gentle 
hill  to  be  ascended,  and  then  his  feet  would  press  the  wild  grass  of  the 
winding  road  which  led  to  the  gate  of  the  Monastery. 

Paul  hurried  through  the  strip  of  wood,  and  descended  the  steep  bank 
into  the  lane,  which  led  from  the  Wissahikon  to  the  Schuylkill.  He  was 
hurrying  toward  the  opposite  bank,  when  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a 
footstep.  A  man  attired  in  the  garb  of  a  laborer  was  journeying  slowly 
along  the  road  with  a  scythe  on  his  shoulder. 

Paul  waited  until  he  approached. 

"Can  you  tell  me,  friend,  whether  the  old  man  still  lives  in  the  Block- 
house yonder  ?" 

The  laborer  started  at  the  sound  of  the  voice — looked  in  Paul's  face 
with  a  vacant  stare,  while  his  rugged  visage  was  stamped  with  an  expres- 
sion of  intense  terror. 

"  The  old  man — sometimes  called  the  Priest  of  Wissahikon— does  Jie 
still  live  yonder  ?" 

Paul  held  his  breath  as  he  awaited  an  answer  to  this  question.  But  the 
laborer  did  not  answer ;  he  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  road  like  one  stricken 
dumb  by  the  hand  of  Heaven ;  his  eyes  dilating  and  every  line  of  his  face 
agitated  by  terror. 

The  suspense  of  Paul  amounted  to  agony. 

"  Speak!  Does  the  old  man  yet  live  ?  The  old  man  who  lived  in  the 
Block-house,  not  two  hundred  yards  from  where  you  stand.  Is  he  yet 
alive  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  advanced,  his  whole  frame  trembling  with  emotion. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  267 

The  laborer  uttered  a  faint  cry,  dropped  his  scythe  in  the  road,  and  darted 
up  the  bank  and  into  the  bushes  as  though  he  had  been  pursued  by  a  wild 
beast. 

"  What  can  it  mean  1  Is  the  curse  of  Cain  indeed  written  on  my  fore- 
head ?" 

Paul  remained  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  road,  absorbed  in  thought. 
Afier  a  moment  he  raised  his  eyes;  there  was  a  noble  poplar  tree  standing 
on  the  verge  of  the  opposite  bank,  its  broad  green  leaves  intermingled  with 
flowers  that  resembled  cups  of  gold  adorned  with  pearl.  At  sight  of  this 
tree,  which  stood  alone,  reaching  forth  its  magnificent  branches  on  every 
side,  all  the  associations  of  his  youth  rushed  upon  the  soul  of  the  Wan- 
derer. 

Beneath  that  tree,  on  the  night  of  his  flight,  he  had  hesitated  for  an  in- 
stant—  uncertain  whether  to  go  back  and  fling  himself  at  his  father's  feet, 
or  to  rush  forward  into  the  unknown  world,  an  outcast,  stamped  with  the 
brand  of  Cain. 

Two  hundred  yards  from  that  tree  stood  the  Monastery  of  Wissahikon. 

Maddened  by  this  monument  of  the  Past,  this  green  memorial  of  his 
crime,  Paul  ascended  the  bank,  and  darting  over  the  irregular  fence, 
hurried  blindly  onward.  It  was  not  long  before  his  feet  pressed  the 
winding  road  which  led  to  the  Block-house  gate. 

Do  not  picture  to  yourself  a  smooth  path,  paved  with  brown  pebbles, 
and  bordered  by  regularly  planted  flowers,  with  the  limbs  of  carefully 
clipped  trees  arching  overhead.  But  picture  a  road  whose  traces  are 
almost  lost  in  a  growth  of  wild  grass  overspread  with  briers — a  devious 
road,  wandering  among  trees  of  every  shape  and  kind,  with  brushwood 
starting  in  luxuriant  vegetation,  all  about  their  massive  trunks.  A  road 
that  now  strikes  to  the  east,  now  to  the  west,  at  this  point  comes  out  in 
sunlight,  and  yonder  hides  itself  beneath  the  branches  that  bend  down 
until  their  leaves  are  mingled  with  the  rank  grass. 

Paul  gazed  upon  the  few  paces  of  the  road  which  were  visible,  and 
felt  that  every  thing  announced  decay  and  desolation.  The  deep  hollows 
dug  by  wheels  in  former  days,  were  buried  in  the  briers  and  grass  ;  it  was 
evident  that  the  path  had  not  been  used  for  many  a  day — perchance 
years. 

After  standing  for  a  moment,  buried  in  thought,  Paul  commenced  that 
journey  of  two  hundred  yards,  which  to  him  was  more  terrible  than  a 
j6urney  around  the  entire  globe. 

As  he  went  onward,  tearing  his  way  through  the  briers,  his  cheek  be- 
came paler,  until  his  eyes,  increasing  in  brightness,  resembled  the  eyes  of  a 
living  man  set  in  the  face  of  a  corse.  He  trembled  with  cold,  although  the 
day  was  one  of  the  most  delicious  in  June,  and  gathered  his  mantle  closely 
over  his  breast. 

He  attained  the  solitary  chesnut  tree,  around  which  the  path  turned 


268  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

with  a  sudden  inclination.  Shadowed  by  the  rich  foliage,  Paul  paused  for 
a  moment,  and  remembered  that  from  this  tree  to  the  gate  of  the  Block- 
house, the  road  was  marked  by  five  inclinations.  At  the  first, — counting 
from  the  chesnut  tree — stood  a  tulip  poplar ;  at  the  second,  an  oak ;  at 
the  third,  a  pine  ;  at  the  fourth,  a  beech  ;  and  at  the  fifth,  a  sycamore  or 
buttonwood  tree.    Around  the  trunk  of  each  of  these  trees — distinguished 

D 

from  the  other  trees  by  their  remarkable  size — the  path  made  a  sudden 
turn. 

From  the  foot  of  the  old  sycamore,  it  was  but  a  few  yards  to  the  gate 
of  the  Block-house.  The  dense  foliage  prevented  the  ancient  edifice 
from  being  seen,  until  this  point  was  attained,  when  it  suddenly,  and  in 
all  its  interesting  details,  rushed  upon  the  eye. 

"I  cannot  go  on — every  tree,  every  flower  brings  some  memory  before 
me — I  will  retrace  my  steps,  and  go  forth  into  the  world  again!" 

These  words  were  not  spoken  in  a  tone  remarkable  for  depth  or  power. 
The  accents  of  the  speaker  were  tremulous  and  broken,  while  his  chest 
rose  and  fell  with  spasmodic  throbbings. 

The  five  trees,  which  he  would  have  to  pass,  each  tree  venerable 
with  age,  and  clad  in  the  glory  of  summer,  seemed  whirling  before 
his  eyes.- 

With  trembling  footsteps,  he  left  the  chesnut  tree.  Faint  and  power- 
less from  the  emotion,  which  only  added  brightness  to  his  eyes,  while 
it  paled  his  cheek,  and  loosened  every  fibre  of  his  frame,  Paul  toiled 
slowly  onward,  until  he  stood  beneath  the  shade  of  the  tulip-poplar. 

Then  it  was,  that  the  memory  of  the  fatal  night  came  upon  him  with 
crushing  force ;  he  sank  on  his  knees,  and  buried  his  face  amid  the  grass. 

"With  this  hand  I  struck  him  down—"  he  moaned — "I  dashed  him 
beneath  my  feet,  and  lived.  Perjured !  Perjured!  The  burden  of  the 
Unpardonable  Sin  is  upon  me.  And  yet,  that  which  has  been,  even  the 
guilt  of  perjury,  the  crime  of  an  unnatural  blow,  is  innocence  compared 
to  that  which  is  to  be.11 

An  unbroken  silence  prevailed  through  the  forest,  while  Paul  remained 
prostrate,  with  his  face  buried  in  the  grass.  There  was  no  human  eye  to 
look  upon  his  agony,  and  listen  to  his  incoherent  words.  He  was  alone 
with  his  Soul— with  Memory.    Memory  of  what? 

A  low  humming  sound  came  to  his  ears.  He  started  up — it  was  the 
sound  of  a  human  voice.  It  came  gently  through  the  wood,  now  rising 
on  the  air,  and  again  dying  away  in  an  indistinct  murmur. 

"  It  is  the  voice  of  Catharine,"  he  cried,  springing  to  his  feet,  and  turn- 
ing around  the  foot  of  the  wild  poplar.  "There  are  two  voices— I  hear 
them  distinctly.    The  voice  of  Catherine  and  " 

"  My  father  !"  he  would  have  said,  but  could  not  speak  the  word. 

Trampling  over  the  briers,  and  through  the  grass,  he  hurried  onward 
toward  the  oak.    He  was  strong  in  his  very  despair.    He  was  resolved 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


269 


to  reach  the  oak  without  a  moment's  delay,  and  turning  its  rugged  trunk, 
prostrate  himself  at  the  feet  of  his  Father.  He  drew  near  the  old  tree,  whose 
branches  might  have  sheltered  an  hundred  men.  Venerable  with  the 
growth  of  five  centuries,  its  immense  trunk  hollowed  by  decay,  and  its 
gnarled  limbs  woven  together  with  fragrant  vines,  it  broke  on  the  eye  ot 
Paul  as  he  hastened  forward,  just  as  he  had  seen  it  in  the  summers  of  his 
boyhood. 

Beneath  its  shade  he  paused,  and  gazed  beyond — that  sound  of  voices 
breaking  more  distinctly  on  his  ear.  Before  him,  tangled  no  longer  with 
briers,  the  road  stretched  to  the  west  again,  with  sunlight  playing  over 
its  grass  and  flowers,  while  the  bright  foliage  quivered  overhead. 

Paul  held  his  breath ;  the  sight  which  he  beheld,  enchained  every 
faculty  of  his  soul. 

Where  the  sunshine  came  in  wandering  rays,  there  was  a  little  child 
tossing  merrily  on  the  grass,  and  crushing  leaves  and  flowers  in  his  tiny 
hands.  A  boy  with  cheeks  like  the  rose,  and  lips  like  twin-cherries,  hair 
of  bright  gold,  mingling  with  the  grass,  and  eyes  of  laughing  blue,  turned* 
towards  the  sky.  His  face  and  naked  arms  were  embrowned  by  the  sun, 
and  his  coarse  garb  indicated  that  he  was  but  a  peasant's  child.  The  air 
rang  with  his  merry  laughter,  as  he  tossed  his  flowers  in  the  air — caught 
them  upon  his  face  and  hair,  and  then — while  his  cheeks  were  almost 
hidden  by  violets  and  roses — reached  forth  his  little  hands  to  gather  more. 

A  happy  child,  dressed  in  an  humble  garb,  playing  all  alone  in  the 
midst  of  the  silent  forest,  making  the  air  musical  with  his  voice,  and  bap- 
tizing his  stainless  cheeks  with  freshly  gathered  flowers  ! 

Paul  stood  very  still,  afraid  to  move  or  breathe,  lest  he  might  scare  the 
beautiful  vision  away.  Leaning  against  the  trunk  of  the  great  oak,  he 
rested  his  pale  cheek  against  the  rough  bark,  and  gazed  in  silence  upon 
the  laughing  child. 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

That  picture  of  laughing  innocence  stood  up  beside  the  image  of  his 
own  dark  fate,  in  terrible  contrast. 

— The  tears  rolled  slowly  down  his  cheeks. 

— Afraid  to  breathe,  he  soon  became  conscious  that  ihfe  was  another 
spectator  of  this  scene.  Amid  the  foliage,  not  far  from  the  child,  appeared 
the  face  of  a  young  woman,  with  a  finger  pressed  upon  the  red  lip,  and 
the  Heaven  of  a  Mother's  love  lighting  up  her  eyes. 

It  was  the  face  of  an  humble  laborer's  daughter — Paul  remembered  it 
well.  She  was  but  a  girl  when  he  left  the  Wissahikon.  One  day,- four 
years  ago,  near  this  very  spot,  a  giii  of  some  fifteen  years  had  knelt 
before  him,  and  joining  her  hands  upon  her  breast,  asked  'his  blessing. 
The  blessing  of  Paul  Ardenheim  !  Inspired  by  the  superstitious  awe 
which  then  prevailed  among  the  country  folks  of  Wissahikon,  in  regard 


# 


270 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


to  the  young  Dreamer,  she  sank  at  his  feet  and  begged  a  blessing  from 
his  lips. 

And  the  face  now  gazing  upon  the  laughing  child,  with  the  ringer  on  the 
red  lip,  was  the  face  of  the  young  girl  who,  four  years  since,  had  knelt  at 
the  feet  of  the  Monk  of  Wissahikon. 

"  They  at  least  are  happy  !  The  young  mother,  whose  eyes  are  full  of 
Heaven,  and  the  child  freshly  gathered  from  the  blossoms  of  Paradise  !" 

It  seemed  to  Paul  that  he  could  gaze  for  ever  on  this  scene ;  it  was  to 
him  a  picture  which  memory  might  wear  for  ever  in  her  holiest  shrine. 
The  child  centred  amid  grass  and  flowers — the  mother  gazing  from  the 
foliage,  her  sunburnt  face  glowing  into  beauty, — the  profound  forest  all 
around  ! 

"  She  can  tell  me  of  my  father,"  thought  Paul.  "At  last  I  can  know 
whether  he  lives.    I  long  to  hear  her  speak  the  name  of  Catharine." 

The  mother  started  from  the  foliage,  and  stood  disclosed  in  the  centre 
of  the  hidden  road,  her  young  form  clad  in  the  coarse  attire  of  a  poor 
'man's  wife,  while  her  brown  hair  fell  loosely  over  the  'kerchief  which 
veiled  her  bosom. 

Paul  advanced ;  his  footstep  crashing  down  the  wild  grass  as  he  left  the 
shadow  of  the  oaken  tree. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  child,"  he  said,  in  that  voice,  which  was  wont  to'win 
the  ear  with  its  rich  intonation — "Let  me  take  it  in  my  arms,  and  learn 
from  its  lips  the  song  which  the  angels  sing  in  Heaven,'v 

The  mother  looked  up,  startled  by  the  unexpected  footstep  and  the  voice. 

"  Do  you  not  remember  me  ?"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  to  smile — "  Has 
my  face  grown  strange  so  soon.    I  have  only  been  absent  two  years — " 

The  young  woman  gazed  upon  this  form,  clad  in  strange  attire,  with 
the  mantle  floating  down  the  shoulder,  and  the  plume  trembling  above  the 
dark  hair  and  livid  face.  She  did  not  speak,  but  her  eyes  dilated ;  her 
lips  parted  ;  she  was  motionless. 

"  Do  you  not  know  me  ?" — again  that  sad  attempt  at  a  smile. 

The  limbs  of  the  young  woman  bent  beneath  her  ;  she  sank  on  the  grass, 
and  with  an  involuntary  gesture,  gathered  her  child  to  her  bosom.  Never 
for  a  moment  <^d  she  turn  her  wild  gaze  from  the  countenance  of  Paul. 
The  color  had  vanished  from  her  face  ;  it  was  evident  that  she  was 
oppressed  by  some  indefinable  terror. 

"Do  you  not  remember  the  day  when  you  knelt  before  me— near  this 
very  spot — and  asked  my  blessing?"  cried  Paul,  as  the  undeniable  fear  of 
the  young  mother  cut  him  to  the  soul — "  Have  I  become  so  changed,  so 
hideous,  that  you  do  not  know  me  W 

"  Do  not  harm  me — "  faltered  the  affrighted  mother,  gathering  her  child 
closer  to  her  heart — "  The  dead — the  dead — " 

"Tell  me,  does  my  father  live  ?  Catharine — my  sister — you  have  seen 
her — she  is  well  ?" 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


271 


— "  The  dead  should  never  return  to  earth,  but  to  bless  us  !  Do  not — 
do  not  harm  me  !" 

"The  dead — what  mean  you  ?    I  am  living — " 

But  still  the  young  mother  clutched  her  child  to  her  bosom,  and  with 
her  dilating  eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  of  Paul,  faltered,  in  a  tone  pitiful  with 
terror — 

"Do  not  harm  me  !    Do  not  harm  me  !" 

— The  agony  of  the  damned  rent  the  heart  of  the  Wanderer,  as  he  rushed 
past  the  mother  and  her  child.  Never  for  an  instant  looking  back,  he  fled 
from  their  presence,  he  passed  the  pine,  and  ere  he  was  aware,  reached 
the  foot  of  the  beechen  tree/ 

From  this  point  the  road  extended  toward  the  north ;  had  it  not  been 
for  the  branches,  which  bent  down  until  their  leaves  swept  the  grass,  Paul 
could  have  seen  the  Block-house. 

"  I  am  accursed  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man.  Yes,  the  meanest  wretch 
who  digs  to  save  himself  from  starvation,  looks  on  me  with  loathing.  The 
young  mother  shrinks  from  me,  as  if  there  was  death  in  my  look;  the 
very  babe  upon  her  bosom  lifts  its  little  hands  to  curse  me."  - 

Upon  the  smooth  rind  of  the  giant-beech,  some  unknown  hand  had 
carved  a  name  and  date. 

PAUL  —  JANUARY   FIRST,  1775. 

He  gazed  upon  this  inscription  with  a  vacant  wonder.  He  could  not 
trust  his  sight,  but  passing  his  hand  over  the  smooth  surface  of  the  beechen 
trunk,  felt  every  letter,  and  counted  them  one  by  one. 

"  What  hand  has  dared  record  that  date,  and  stamp  the  memory  of  my 
crime  upon  this  tree  ?" 

There  was  no  answer  to  the  question.  Paul  left  the  shadow  of  the 
beech  and  staggered  onward.  His  steps  were  wild  and  unsteady — he 
tottered  like  a  drunken  man. 

"It  is  only  a  moment  longer,— only  a  moment !  I  will  stand  beneath 
the  sycamore  and  see  my  home.    Home  !" 


272 


PAUL  ARDENHELM;  OR, 


CHAPTER  NINTH. 

HOME. 

A  branch  bent  over  his  path — he  dashed  it  aside,  and  caught  a  gleam 
of  the  white  trunk  of  the  sycamore. 

His  face  like  the  face  of  a  corpse,  his  eyes  flashing  with  the  glare  of 
madness  from  the  compressed  brows,  his  forehead  damp  with  moisture, 
he  dashed  onward,  reaching  forth  his  hands  with  an  involuntary  impulse, 
as  he  saw  the  white  bark  of  the  well-remembered  sycamore. 

But  ten  paces  intervened  between  him  and  the  tree  ;  only  ten  paces, 
and  yet  every  foot  of  the  green  sod  seemed  lengthened  into  a  league. 

Bounding  forward  with  the  last  impulse  of  his  strength,  he  fell  prostrate 
at  the  foot  of  the  sycamore.  He  was  afraid  to  raise  his  head — afraid  to 
look,  lest  he  might  see  his  father's  face  — afraid  to  listen,  lest  he  might  hear 
his  father's  voice.  *  *  * 

Lifting  his  face  from  his  hands,  he  gazed  down  the  path,  hedged  in  by 
trees,  and  beheld  the  sunlight  shining  warmly  over  a  green  space  in  which 
it  terminated. 

From  that  green  space  arose  a  wall  of  logs,  and  beyond  that  wall,  a 
massive  structure  glowed  brightly  in  the  sun. 
It  was  the  Block-House— it  was  his  Home. 

Do  not  picture  to  yourself  a  Gothic  mansion,  with  pointed  windows  and 
roof  broken  into  regular  peaks,  adorned  with  fantastic  carvings  along  the 
eaves,  with  chimneys  starting  into  the  air  like  minarets  from  the  dome  of 
a  Turkish  mosque — a  Gothic  mansion,  standing  in  the  centre  of  a  garden, 
which,  in  its  turn,  is  separated  from  the  woods  by  a  neat  lattice  fence. 

No!  The  Block-House  of  the  Wissahikon,  which  we  have  seen  in 
winter,  capped  with  snow,  was  only  a  huge  square  of  logs,  rising  darkly 
in  the  centre  of  an  open  space,  separated  from  the  woods  by  a  high  wall, 
pierced  by  a  gateway  on  the  west.  Whether  the  Block-House  was  two 
or  three  stories  high,  whether  it  comprised  twenty  or  an  hundred  cham- 
bers within  its  walls  of  oak  and  cedar,  or  whether  it  was  built  in  imitation 
of  any  known  style  of  architecture,  are  questions  that  we  cannot  determine. 

In  winter  time,  it  turned  to  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  a  gloomy  front, 
broken  by  a  lofty  hall  door,  with  a  window  on  either  side  and  two  above. 
From  this  hall  door  to  the  gateway  was  only  twenty  yards.  And  in  the 
winter  time,  this  huge  square  of  logs,  standing  within  its  wall,  with  its 
ga'eway  looking  to  the  west,  and  its  encircling  trees  stripped  of  their 
leaves,  rising  giant  and  grim  around  it,  presented  an  appearance  full  of 
gloom  and  desolation. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  273 
But  now  the  scene  was  changed. 

It  was  surmounted  by  lofty  trees,  whose  straight  trunks  rose  for  thirty 
feet  without  a  branch,  and  then  their  limbs,  thick  with  foliage,  met  around 
the  roof. 

The  sun  shone  warmly  over  the  gateway,  over  the  wall,  and  upon  the 
fabric  itself,  but  did  not  disclose  the  outline  of  a  single  rugged  timber. 

It  looked  not  like  a  mass  of  dark  logs,  but  was,  in  truth,  a  mass  of  leaves 
and  flowers.  It  was  covered,  from  the  roof  to  the  sod,  with  vines,  whose 
foliage  only  permitted  the  hall  door  to  be  seen.  A  garment  of  leaves  upon 
the  broken  roof;  a  tapestry  of  leaves  upon  the  western  and  southern  walls; 
leaves  and  flowers,  woven  together,  around  the  posts  of  the  gloomy  door- 
way— thus  attired,  the  old  Block-House  looked  cheerful  in  the  rays  of 
the  summer  day. 

Even  the  wall  which  encircled  the  space  in  which  it  stood,  was  covered 
with  vines  and  flowers.  The  gate  posts  of  cedar  were  clad  in  green,  in 
crimson,  in  scarlet,  in  azure  and  gold. 

Standing  thus,  amid  its  encircling  trees,  the  Monastery  no  longer  resem- 
bled a  gloomy  mausoleum.  It  did  indeed  look  like  a  monument  built  over 
the  ashes  of  the  dead,  but  it  was  a  monument  clad  in  the'  leaves,  the 
flowers — the  rainbow  drapery  of  June. 

Paul  could  not  repress  an  ejaculation  of  joy. 

"  It  looks  so  beautiful — more  beautiful  than  in  the  olden  time  !" 

Olden  time  !  He  had  seen  scarce  twenty-one  summers,  and  yet  he  talks 
of  the  olden  time!  TUere  are  some  minds,  we  must  remember,  which  do 
not  measure  years  by  the  succession  of  winter  and  summer,  but  by  their 
Thoughts — by  their  Suffering — by  their  Hope  and  by  their  Despair. 

The  stillness  which  dweh  around  the  Monastery,  was  only  disturbed  by 
the  murmuring  of  the  breeze  among  the  foliage.  The  subdued  light  which 
invested  its  walls,  came  through  the  canopy  of  woven  branches,  but  no 
glimpse  of  blue  sky  was  to  be  seen. 

Paul  hurried  forward.  It  was  no  time  for  thought.  He  was  determined 
to  meet  the  pale  face  of  his  father — he  was  nerved  to  encounter  the  sad 
welcome  of  his  sister's  eyes. 

Leaving  the  sycamore,  he  hurried  toward  the  gateway.  The  gate  was 
open,  but  wild  grass  and  flowers  started  thickly  between  its  vine-clad  posts. 
The  doors,  formed  of  solid  oak,  hung  on  their  rusted  hinges. 

"It  has  not  been  closed  for  many  a  day,"  thought  Paul,  as  he  hurried 
through  the  tall  grass. 

He  beheld  the  door  of  the  Monastery — a  dark  mass  of  oaken  panels,  with 
an  iron  knocker  near  the  top — appearing  in  the  midst  of  the  tapestry  of 
vines,  which  fluttered  over  the  front  of  the  edifice. 

To  leave  the  gateway,  to  hurry  over  the  space  between  it  and  the  man- 
sion— a  space  overgrown  with  grass  and  briers— to  place  his  feet  upon  the 
flat  stone  in  front  of  the  door — was  the  work  of  a  moment. 

18 


274  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

He  nerved  his  arm  as  for  a  desperate  effort — he  seized  the  iron  knocker 
and  beat  the  panel  with  repeated  blows,  and  stood  cold  and  shuddering,  as 
he  listened  for  the  echo  of  a  footstep. 

He  heard  the  echoes  of  the  knocker  die  away  along  the  corridor,  within 
the  mansion,  and — was  it  a  fancy? — he  heard  the  sound  of  voices;  voices 
very  faint  and  far  away.    Then  a  dead  silence  ensued. 

Again— torn  by  emotions  beyond  the  power  of  words  to  describe  or 
analyze — again  he  lifted  the  knocker,  and  again  the  gloomy  echoes  re- 
sounded through  the  corridor.  And  once  more  that  sound,  which  resembled 
voices  mingling  in  low  whispers,  followed  by  a  dead  silence. 

Paul  could  endure  this  horrible  suspense  no  longer. 

"Another  moment,  and  I  am  mad,"  he  cried,  and  dashed  his  clenched 
hand  against  the  door. 

It  opened  before  him — the  wooden  latch,  crumbled  by  age,  fell  in  frag- 
ments at  his  feet — the  light  of  day  streamed  in  upon  the  corridor,  while  a 
gust  of  damp  chill  air  rushed  in  his  face. 

This  corridor  traversed  the  entire  extent  of  the  Block-House,  from  west 
to  east,  dividing  the  rooms  which  stood  upon  the  lower  floor  of  the  mansion. 

Into  that  corridor  opened  the  doors  of  various  chambers — the  room  of 
his  father — of  Catharine — his  own  cell — the  room  in  which  the  Deliverer 
had  uttered  his  vow — and  that  apartment,  which  concealed  in  its  bosom 
the  Urn  enshrining  the  Deliverer's  name. 

There  too  was  the  fatal  door  traced  with  the  figure  of  a  Cross  ;  the  door 
of  the  Sealed  Chamber. 

Paul  stood  on  the  threshold,  gazing  into  the  gloom  of  the  corridor,  list- 
ening intently  for  a  sound.  From  a  nook  near  the  door  the  old  clock 
glared  in  the  sun,  covered  with  cobwebs  and  dust.  The  hands  stood  still 
on  its  face  ;  one  pointing  to  the  hour  of  "  Five,"  the  other  to  the  figure 
»  Two." 

"Ten  minutes  past  five  !"  exclaimed  the  Wanderer — "It  struck  five  the 

moment  when  I  left  that  fatal  room  and  since  that  hour  has  ceased 

to  move  !" 

It  seemed  to  him  that  every  dumb  object  which  he  saw,  was  armed  with 
some  fearful  memory.  The  inscription  on  the  beech — the  hands  of  the 
clock  standing  still,  and  pointing  to  the  hour,  the  moment,  when  he  dashed 
his  father  from  his  path, — the  silent  records,  of  the  past,  looked  like  the 
work  of  no  human  hand. 

"Father!  Sister!"  cried  Paul,  but  he  started  at  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice. — 

Advancing,  he  opened  the  first  door  to  the  right,  crossed  its  threshold, 
stumbled  against  some  object  in  the  darkness,  and  at  last  touched  the  bolt 
of  a  shutter  with  his  extended  hands.  He  drew  the  bolt,  pushed  open  the 
shutter,  as  far  as  the  vines  without  would  admit,  and  by  the  faint  light 
which  came  through  the  aperture  examined  the  details  of  the  place. 


I 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAMIKON.  275 

It  was  a  square  room,  neatly  panelled  with  dark  oak.  Near  the  win- 
dow was  a  fire-place,  and  in  the  centre  stood  a  large  table  of  unpainted 
pine,  around  which  were  ranged  three  chairs  made  of  dark  wood.  Huge 
!  rafters  stretched  along  the  ceiling,  and  there  were  two  windows,  one  open- 
ing to  the  north,  the  other  to  the  west.  As  the  light  came  through  the 
narrow  aperture,  the  place  looked  naked  and  desolate. 

Around  this  table,  in  the  days  bygone,  the  old  man  and-  his  children  had 
gathered  to  their  frugal  meal;  which  was  prepared  upon  the  hearth,  either 
by  the  hands  of  Catharine,  or  the  wife  of  some  neighboring  farmer.  A 
frugal  meal,  indeed,  for  it  was  composed  of  the  produce  of  the  garden,  the 
fruits  of  the  field,  with  clear  cold  water  from  the  well.  Neither  flesh  nor 
wine  ever  passed  the  lips  of  the  old  man  or  his  children. 

Paul  could  not  turn  his  eyes  away  from  the  table ;  the  chairs  seemed 
arranged  for  his  father,  himself,  and  Catherine,  as  in  other  days ;  but  there 
was  dust  upon  the  board,  and  cobwebs  hung  across  the  fireless  hearth. 

He  could  not  banish  the  conviction,  that  the  room  had  been  untenanted 
for  many  months. 

"  He  is  dead — my  father,"  he  cried,  in  a  tone  of  agony.    "  I  return  to 
;  my  home,  and  the  old  place  is  silent.    No  voice  but  mine  awakes  the 
I  echoes.    No  foot  but  mine  brushes  the  dust  from  the  floor.    Father — 
sistef — both  dead — I  am  alone  in  the  world — alone." 

Sinking  on  a  chair,  he  rested  his  arms  upon  the  table,  and  buried  his 
,  face  in  his  hands. 

When  he  raised  his  face  into  the  light,  every  feature  was  resplendent 
with  joy. 

I      "  Thank  God — my  father  is  dead !   The  iron  hand  of  Fate  is  lifted  from 
my  breast !" 

Uttering  these  words  with  a  burst  of  unfeigned  rapture,  he  sank  on  his 
knees,  near  the  table,  and  raised  his  glowing  face  toward  heaven. 

"The  sod  is  on  his  breast,  the  grave-cloth  on  his  limbs  — thank  God, 
,  thank  God  !    There  is  no  stain  upon  this  hand  !" 
It  was  his  right  hand  which  he  lifted  in  the  light. 

Mad  and  incomprehensible  triumph  !    Even  amid  the  tears  which  fall 
for  the  death  of  his  father  and  his  sister,  lie  thanks  God  that  the  father  is 
:  indeed  dead,  that  the  sod  is  uptfn  his  breast  and  the  grave-cloth  on  his 
»  limbs. 

His  face,  at  all  times  remarkable  for  its  thought,  embodied  in  features  of 
|  bronze,  and  lighted  by  eyes  of  dazzling  lustre,  now  shone  in  every  line 
with  an  extravagant  joy. 

"The  Fiend  who  pursued  me  over  the  ocean — over  Europe— never  for 
j   one  moment  pausing  in  his  terrible  chase — now  hovering  near  me  like  a 
i   shadow,  now  descending  upon  me  like  a  cloud,  now  drinking  my  life-blood, 
drop  by  drop,  from  the  fountains  of  my  heart — this  Fiend  shall  pursue  me 
no  longer!    God  of  mercy — I  am  free  !" 


t 


« 


276  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

Amid  these  wild  words  and  incoherent  figures,  it  was  plainly  to  be  seen, 
some  thought  of  appalling  intensity  was  hidden. 

"  Free  to  begin  my  life,  as  I  would  have  begun  it,  had  I  not  entered  the 
Sealed  Chamber — "  he  shuddered — "  until  my  father  was  dead." 

His  chest  shook  as  he  bowed  his  head  and  wept  aloud. 

"But  he  may  live — live  to  blast  me  with  the  sight  of  his  pale  face  and 
mild  blue  eyes." 

He  arose  and  advanced  to  the  fireplace.  There  was  a  shelf  above  the 
hearth,  and  on  this  shelf  Paul  discovered,  with  much  astonishment,  a  box 
tilled  with  tinder,  and  near  it  flint,  steel,  and  a  package  of  matches  ;  in  fact, 
the  requisite  materials  for  creating  fire.  Covered  with  dust  and  cobwebs, 
they  had  not  been  used  for  many  a  day  ;  it  may  be,  not  even  since  the  last 
night  of  1774. 

From  the  ashes  of  the  fireless  hearth,  Paul  drew  forth  a  pine-knot  slightly 
charred  at  one  end. 

"It  will  serve  me  for  a  torch,  while  1  traverse  the  unknown  chambers 
of  my  home,"  he  said  ;  and  in  a  few  moments,  with  the  red  light  of  the 
pine-knot  flashing  over  his  features,  he  stood  in  the  corridor  again,  his  back 
to  the  sunlight  and  his  face  toward  the  shadow. 

Then,  as  if  nerving  himself  for  a  desperate  deed,  he  passed  along  the 
corridor,  he  drew  near  the  door  of  his  father's  chamber. 

How  the  memories  of  other  days  came  crowding  over  his  soul  ! 

Not  a  board  in  the  floor,  nor  a  panel  in  the  walls,  but  was  remembered 
by  him,  and  remembered  well.  The  very  echo  of  his  footsteps  brought 
back  the  sounds  of  other  days. 

Soon  the  pine-knot,  burning  and  glaring  over  his  head,  flashed  upon  the 
door  of  his  father's  room.  The  moisture  started  in  big  drops  from  the 
forehead  of  the  son  ;  he  felt  his  heart  contract  and  dilate  by  turns. 

"  He  maybe  there,  waiting  for  me."  The  thought  chilled  his  blood,  as 
he  stood  in  front  of  the  door. 

He  listened — standing  perfectly  still,  while  the  torch  lighted  up  his  face 
with  a  gloomy  ray,  he  listened  for  the  sound  of  his  father's  voice,  for  the 
first  echo  of  his  father's  step. 

All  was  still. 

And  yet,  torn  by  a  horrible  doubt,  Paul  could  not  advance  ;  he  remained 
Sizing  upon  the  panels  of  the  door  with  an  absent  stare. 

He  had  but  to  extend  his  hand,  to  touch  the  latch,  and  the  door  would 
open  before  him.    But  he  dared  not  do  it. 

4*He  is  there — slumbering  upon  his  bed,  while  the  Sad  Image  scowls 
upon  his  withered  face  and  venerable  hair.  In  his  dreams  he  murmurs 
the  name  of  the  outcast;  in  his  dreams  he  writhes  at  the  memory  of  the 
sacrilegious  blow;  in  his  dreams  he  repeats  the  story  of  the  broken  oath, 
and  heaps  a  father's  curse  upon  the  head  of  the  guilty  son." 

Paul  could  gaze  upon  the  door  no  longer.    He  advanced  but  a  step, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


277 


holding  the  light  above  his  head.  It  was  the  door  of  his  sister's  chamber 
which  met  his  gaze. 

"  Catharine  !"  he  whispered.    There  was  no  answer. 

"My  sister !"  he  bent  his  head  against  the  panels.  In  that  moment  of 
suspense,  a  gentle  face,  whose  clear  blue  eyes  revealed  a  guiltless  soul, 
rose  vividly  upon  his  memory,  over  the  mists  of  the  past.  Still  no  answer 
greeted  him ;  there  was  no  footstep  tripping  lightly  over  the  floor  ;  no 
gentle  hand  touched  the  latch ;  no  voice — full  of  melody,  hallowed  with  the 
tones  of  other  days — murmured  the  brother's  name,  and  bade  the  wanderer 
welcome  home. 

The  deep  stillness  was  undisturbed  even  by  the  faintest  sound. 

"Sister!"  cried  a  voice,  whose  accents  were  choked  with  agony — "It  is 
I — it  is  your  brother,  who,  sick  with  wandering,  maddened  by  remorse,  now 
stands  trembling  at  the  threshold  of  your  chamber,  afraid  to  look  upon  the 
innocence  of  your  face,  afraid  to  speak  your  name.  Catharine  !  Catharine ! 
You  do  not  answer  me.  You  avoid  the  sight  of  the  blasphemer's  face. 
It  is  well.    I  have  deserved  this,  and  more." 

Again  he  bent  his  head  and  listened.  No  step,  no  voice,  not  the  faintest 
sound. 

Paul  passed  on. 

It  was  the  door  of  the  chamber  which  shrouded  within  its  shadows  the 
name  of  the  Deliverer.  The  name  written  by  the  Deliverer  himself,  and 
by  the  old  man  deposited  in  the  Urn. 

"It  was  not  to  be  opened  until  a  year  had  passed.  The  year  has  gone, 
—  two  years  and  more — but  I  dare  not  cross  the  threshold,  for  I  am  ac- 
cursed of  God,  disowned  by  the  dead,  abhorred  by  the  living  !"  . 

He  longed,  earnestly  longed  to  cross  that  threshold,,  and  place  his  hand 
within  the  Urn,  and  read  the  words  which  his  Father  had  written  beside 
the  Deliverer's  name. 

But  his  heart  was  too  full  of  fearful  memories,  his  brain  was  dizzy  and 
his  sight  was  dim.  He  advanced  with  trembling  steps,  and  as  the  pine- 
knot  flashed  through  the  shadows,  he  beheld  the  Cross  upon  the  dark 
panels. 

It  was  the  door  of  the  Sealed  Chamber. 

Paul  saw  it  and  rushed  forward  with  a  bound.  That  Cross  traced  on 
the  panels  pierced  his  brain  with  an  intolerable  torture.  For  a  moment 
he  stood  before  it,  swaying  to  and  fro,  like  a  drunken  man ;  he  reached 
forth  his  hand,  and  touched  the  key  which  was  inserted  in  the  lock. 

He  was  about  to  enter  the  Sealed  Chamber,  and  confront  his  Fate  once 
more. 

"It  was  here  that  I  came  forth  with  the  blight  upon  my  soul,  the  mark 
of  Cain  upon  my  forehead.  From  that  hour  I  have  never  for  a  moment 
known  even  the  name  of  Peace.    From  that  hour  my  soul  has  been  given 


278 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM:  OR, 


to  the  fiend',  my  life  to  a  despair  more  hopeless  than  that  which  awaits  the 
damned." 

His  hand  was  upon  the  key — he  grasped  the  torch  more  firmly,  and 
placed  his  foot  against  the  door. 

"Shall  I  again  stand  face  to  face  with  Fate,  and  wrap  myself  in  the 
tempest  of  my  Destiny  once  more  !    Again — again — 

His  blood  congealed  as  the  memory  of  that  incredible  Revelation  pos- 
sessed his  soul.  There  was  no  hue  of  life  upon  his  face ;  lip,  brow  and  cheek 
— all  were  colorless.  His  eyes  no  longer  shone  with  unnatural  bright- 
ness— they  were  covered  with  a  glassy  film. 

And  then,  as  if  the  secret  of  that  fatal  Chamber  had  taken  bodily  form, 
and  glowed  before  him  like  a  corse,  invested  with  an  unnatural*  light  by 
the  touch  of  Satan,  with  the  pale  light  of  the  grave  glimmering  from  its 
sunken  eyes,  and  a  low-toned  voice  speaking  from  its  livid  lips — Paul 
groaned  in  agony,  and  muttered  amid  his  incoherent  cries — 

"Spare  me!  Spare  me!  Mercy — mercy!  Not  with  this  hand — not 
with  this  hand — " 

Exhausted  by  the  violence  of  his  emotions, — appalled  by  the  memory 
of  the  Revelation — afraid  to  know  that  the  old  man  his  father  was  indeed 
dead,  but  much  more  afraid  to  look  upon  his  living  face,  Paul  sank  on  his 
knees,  and  lifted  the  torch  above  his  face  with  his  clasped  hands. 

"There  is  no  pity  for  me  on  earth, — in  Heaven  nothing  but  Judgment. 
My  punishment  is  greater  that  I  can  bear  /" 

These  words,  uttered  by  Cain,  when  the  burden  of  his  remorse  pressed 
too  heavily  upon  his  soul,  fell  with  touching  emphasis  from  the  lips  of 
Paul  Ardenheim. 

Many  moments  passed  while  he  remained  on  his  knees,  with  his  face 
turned  to  heaven. 

Gathering  strength  at  last,  he  rose,  and  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  oppo- 
site dodr.  It  led  into  his  own  room,  the  home  of  his  thought,  that  dearly 
remembered  place,  where  the  Hebrew  volume  had  spoken  its  mysterious 
words,  and  Shakspeare  and  Milton  blessed  the  Dreamer's  soul. 

"  Shall  I  enter  ?"  exclaimed  Paul,  as  the  brighter  memories  for  a 
moment  banished  the  gloom  from  his  soul. 

"Here  the  Prophet  Shakspeare  first  spoke  to  me  ;  here  the  voice  of  the 
Prophet  Milton  first  broke  upon  my  solitude  ;  it  was  here,  within  this  narrow 
cell,  that  I  first  beheld  that  World  of  other  ages,  which  men  call  the 
Bible. — I  cannot  enter  now — I  am  afraid.  I  cannot  pause  for  a  moment, 
until  I  know  that  my  father  lives,  or  that  he  is  dead." 

He  passed  on  toward  the  extremity  of  the  corridor.  Those  doors  on 
either  side,  which  had  never  been  opened  within  his  memory,  were  now 
hung  with  cobwebs.  Their  dusky  surface  only  spoke  of  silence  and 
desolation. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


279 


Presently  the  pine-knot  flashed  upon  the  last  door,  at  the  eastern  end 
of  the  passage.  It  was  slightly  open ;  Paul  touched  it,  and  beheld  a 
narrow  stairway. 


CHAPTER  TENTH. 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  UPPER  ROOMS. 

"  It  leads  to  the  upper  rooms,  of  which  my  father  spoke  in  his  last 
letter,"  said  Paul,  and  for  an  instant  he  stood  hesitating,  with  his  foot 
upon  the  first  step.  The  stillness  which  prevailed,  sank  upon  his  soul, 
and  filled  him  with  an  insurmountable  awe.  At  the  other  end  of  the  cor- 
ridor, the  sunlight  shone,  but  around  him  all  was  vague  and  shadowy. 
The  light  of  the  blazing  pine-knot  revealed  his  colorless  features,  while 
its  smoke  hung  in  a  cloud  above  his  dark  hair. 

A  wild  hope,  mingled  with  a  wilder  fear,  Crossed  his  brain,  that  his 
father  stood  waiting  for  him  at  the  head  of  the  stairway,  with  Catharine  by 
his  side. 

"  Father !"  he  whispered,  and  bent  forward,  trembling  in  anticipation 
of  an  answer — "  Catharine  !" 

It  seemed  to  him,  that  he  heard  a  sound  something  like  the  faint  echo 
of  a  step,  mingled  with  the  accents  of  a  whispering  voice.  Now  it  came 
from  the  rooms  above ;  he  heard  it  plainly ;  and  again  it  seemed  to 
murmur  beneath  his  feet. 

Was  it  indeed  the  sound  of  a  human  voice,  the  echo  of  a  human  step, 
or  only  one  of  those  peculiar  murmurs,  which  break  through  the  stillness 
Of  a  deserted  mansion,  on  a  calm  summer  day,  reminding  us  of  the  low- 
toned  whispering  voices  —  the  half-heard  footsteps — of  the  dead? 

Paul  dared  not  speak  the  fear  which  chilled  his  heart.  "  Assured  that 
his  father  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  head  of  the  stairway,  that  the  gentle 
face  of  his  sister  was  there,  beside  the  withered  features  of  the  old  man, 
he  nerved  himself  for  a  last  effort.  His  face  became  calm  ;  not  a  linea- 
ment stirred.  It  was  very  pale,  but  fixed  as  marble.  His  hand  was  firm  ; 
he  clutched  the  blazing  pine-knot  without  a  tremor. 

"  If  he  lives,  I  am  once  more  an  outcast  upon  the  face  of  the  earth.  If 
he  is  dead — then,  there  is  a  hope  for  me,  a  glorious  hope." 

As  this  thought  crossed  his  mind,  he  ascended  the  stairway — his  Light 


2S0 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


flashing  upward,  with  the  smoke  rolling  about  the  flame  like  gloomy  in- 
cense over  a  demon  fire,  illumined  the  head  of  the  stairway. 

It  was  a  narrow  staircase,  winding  with  a  sudden  turn,  and  almost  per- 
pendicular. Pale  and  breathless,  Paul  attained  the  head  ;  he  stood  on  the 
tloor  of  a  corridor,  and  holding  the  light  above  his  head,  endeavored  to 
pierce  the  shadows  which  darkened  beyond  him. 

My  father  is  not  here,"  he  murmured,  and  traversed  the  corridor. 

It  was  only  half  the  extent  of  the  passage  on  the  lower  floor.  Seven 
doors  appeared  in  its  walls  ;  three  on  the  right,  as  many  on  the  left,  and 
one  at  its  western  extremity. 

Paul  anxiously  surveyed  the  doors  on  the  left. 

"  They  have  not  been  opened  for  years,"  he  said,  as  he  saw  the  dust 
which  had  gathered  in  the  crevices ;  the  spider-webs  which  hung  from 
the  top  of  each  door-frame. 

Then  turning  in  his  walk,  he  marked  with  an  eager  glance,  the  doors 
on  his  left. 

"An  inscription — hah !  It  is  dim  with  time,  but  the  letters  are  percep- 
tible," and  he  held  the  torch  nearer  to  the  dark  panels. 

A.  name  was  written  there,  not  in  the  round  Roman,  but  in  the 
picturesque  Teutonic  character : 

"  Anselm — " 

"  An — I  remember.    He  was  one  of  the  three  who,  with  my  father, 
kept  the  ancient  faith  in  the  woods  of  Wissahikon." 
The  next  door  also  bore  a  name — 
"  Joseph — " 

Paul  passed  on,  until  he  fronted  the  last  door  of  the  three,  and  beheld 
traced  in  the  same  bold  characters,  obscured  by  age,  the  name — 
"  Immanuel." 

"  Hah  !    There  is  a  key  in  this  lock.    Shall  I  enter  ?" 

He  turned  the  key,  which  grated  harshly  in  the  lock,  and  the  door 
opened.  He  crossed  the  threshold,  and  by  the  torch-light  beheld  a  small 
apartment,  which  contained  a  table,  a  chair  and  a  bench — all  of  un- 
painted  oak. 

"  Within  this  rude  place,  Immanuel  passed  his  hours,  meditating,  in 
silence  and  in  night,  the  coming  of  the  Deliverer.  Bread  and  water 
placed  upon  this  table,  formed  his  fare.  This  hard  bench  was  his  only 
bed.    Here  he  lived  and  died." 

The  room  looked  bare  and  desolate  ;  a  strip  of  parchment  affixed  to  the 
wall  by  a  nail,  alone  varied  the  sombre  hue  of  the  dark  wainscot.  These 
words  were  written  upon  the  parchment — 

UNION. 

Then  shall  the  Lead  become  Gold,  and  the  Sneer  be  changed 
into  a  Smile. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


281 


"  Was  this  inscription,  traced  upon  the  parchment,  ever  intended  to 
meet  my  eye  ?  Ah — I  remember !  '  Then  shall  the  Lead  become 
Gold — '  my  father  often  told  the  Legend  of  the  Leaden  Image.  Another 
door  !    It  leads  into  the  cell  of  Joseph — " 

There  was  a  narrow  doorway  opening  into  the  next  room,  but  the  door 
had  been  removed  from  the  hinges,  and  the  threshold  was  free. 

Paul  passed  into  the  room. 

The  same  table,  bench  and  chair,  the  same  blank  and  desolate  appear- 
ance, and  a  parchment  affixed  to  the  walls  by  a  rusted  nail.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  inscription  on  the  parchment,  Paul  would  not  have  been  able 
to  distinguish  this  cell  from  the  other.    This  was  the  inscription — 

fREEDOM. 

The  Heart  reveals  only  when  the  Hand  is  boldly  grasped. 

"  Does  this  also  refer  to  the  Leaden  Image  ?  What  revelation  lies 
hidden  in  this  cabalistic  formula  ?  *  The  Heart  reveals  only  when  the 
Hand  is  boldly  grasped  !'  " 

There  was  another  doorway  leading  into  the  next  chamber,  which 
presented  the  same  features  as  the  others — the  table,  the  bench,  the  chair, 
and  the  parchment  affixed  to  the  walls.  It  was  the  cell  of  Anselm. 
Thus  read  the  inscription— 

BROTHERHOOD. 

At  the  FEET  of  the  IMPRISONED  thou  wilt  discover  the  D  . 

"  The  last  word  is  obscure — the  D  is  plain,  but  the  other  letters  I  can- 
not read.    Doom  ?    Is  that  the  word  ?    Or  Danger  ?" 

Paul  sank  into  the  chair  of  Anselm,  and  surrendered  himself  to  the 
train  of  thought,  created  by  these  words  written  on  the  parchment,  which 
were  affixed  to  the  walls  of  the  three  chambers. 

"  First,  Union  ;  then  Freedom  ;  and  last  and  best,  Brotherhood.  First, 
the  assurance  that  the  Lead  shall  become  Gold,  and  the  Sneer  be  turned 
into  a  Smile.  Then  the  dim  enigma — the  Heart  reveals  only  when  the 
Hand  is  firmly  grasped.  Last  of  all,  the  mysterious  sentence,  with  its 
final  word  blotted  by  time. — At  the  feet  of  the  Imprisoned,  thou  wilt  dis- 
cover the  D  .    What  mean  these  parchments,  affixed  to  the  panels 

of  the  lonely  chambers,  whose  very  atmosphere  is  heavy  and  damp  as  with 
the  atmosphere  of  Death  ?" 

Once  more  Paul  traversed  the  cells,  and  read  again  the  inscriptions  of 
each  place,  while  his  amazement  deepened  fast  into  awe. 

"  Was  this  designed  as  a  part  of  my  initiation  into  the  higher  mysteries 
of  the  ancient  faith  ?    Ah,  I  remember — " 


282  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


Standing  on  the  threshold  of  Immanuel's  cell,  he  repeated  these  words, 
in  a  voice  of  indescribable  melancholy — 

"'No  child  shall  ever  call  thee  Father!  Thy  name,  thy  race  must 
end  with  thee,  and  be  buried  in  thy  grave.'  " 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  by  the  light  of  the 
pine-knot,  discovered  the  door  which  stood  in  the  western  extremity  of 
the  passage.  Where  did  this  door  lead!  As  Paul  stood  wondering  whether 
it  led  into  a  larger  chamber  than  the  others,  or  opened  upon  a  stairway, 
his  eye  encountered  the  keyhole,  and  at  the  same  time  he  felt  the  key  of 
Immanuel's  chamber  press  his  hand. 

"I  will  try  it."  He  placed  the  key  in  the  lock;  it  turned;  the  door 
slowly  opened. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  indescribable  amazement  that  Paul  started  back 
from  the  threshold,  as  the  glare  of  the  pine-knot  dimly  revealed  to  him  the 
outlines  of  that  unknown  chamber. 

"A  large  room,  with  a  ceiling  like  a  dome,"  he  murmured,  as  he  cross- 
ed the  threshold — "The  windows  are  closed  like  the  windows  of  the  other 
rooms ;  the  atmosphere  is  damp  and  heavy.  How  the  echoes  swell  around 
me,  like  the  voices  of  ghosts — the  shadows  flitting  over  the  floor,  seem 
like  the  phantoms  who  watch  me,  as  I  draw  near  the  moment  of  my  Fate." 

Presently  standing  in  the  centre  of  that  spacious  room,  which  occupied 
at  least  one-half  the  extent  of  the  upper  floor  of  the  Block-House,  Paul 
raised  the  light  and  observed  the  details  of  the  place. 

It  was  a  wide  and  gloomy  hall,  with  panelled  walls  and  naked  floor.  There 
were  no  chairs,  no  benches/no  paintings  on  the  walls,  no  decoration  of 
any  kind.  As  Paul  advanced,  he  beheld  a  circular  table  standing  near  the 
western  wall,  and  standing  alone  on  the  bare  floor. 

He  held  the  light  near  it ;  there  was  a  wooden  bowl  upon  its  surface 
and  near  this  bowl  a  book  with  the  leaves  spread  open. 

"It  is  the  Bowl  of  the  Sacrament,  resting  upon  the  altar  of  the  ancient 
faith,  with  the  open  Bible  near  it." 

He  raised  the  pine-knot;  from  the  gloomy  wall  above  the  altar  smiled 
a  picture  of  surpassing  beauty. 

The  design  was  very  simple— a  Globe  surmounted  by  a  Cross.  The 
sun  was  rising  on  the  verge  of  the  globe,  and  its  first  beams  tinted  the 
lonely  cross  with  rosy  light. 

"'The  Rosy  Cross  !'  "  ejaculated  Paul,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  re- 
peats the  words  of  another.    "Ah — I  remember — " 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


283 


CHAPTER  ELEVENTH. 

THE    CHAMBER    OF    THE  URN. 

Paul  was  wrapt  in  a  chaos  of  thought. 

"  I  will  hasten  to  the  room  which  enshrouds  the  urn, — there,  I  will  be- 
hold the  explanation  of  these  mysteries.  At  last  I  will  read  the  name  of 
the  Deliverer." 

He  hurried  from  the  Chapel,  passed  along  the  corridor  and  descended 
the  stairs,  while  the  uplifted  pine-knot  revealed  his  pale  face,  marked  with 
the  indications  of  absorbing  thought. 

He  thought  no  longer  of  the  Sealed  Chamber  and  its  Revelation;  the 
memory  of  his  father,  his  sister,  passed  from  his  soul  for  a  moment.  As 
he  hurried  onward  toward  the  Chamber  of  the  Urn,  his  meditations,  vague 
and  incoherent,  became  centred  in  one  desire. 

"  I  will  read  the  Deliverer's  name.  Then  the  darkness  will  be  day ; 
the  mystery  will  be  mystery  no  longer.  It  may  be,  that  the  terrible  suffer- 
ing through  which  I  have  passed,  is  only  an  ordeal  intended  to  prepare  me 
for  a  glorious  future." 

He  reached  the  door  of  the  Chamber  of  the  Urn.  There  was  no  key 
in  the  lock,  but  Paul  placed  his  foot  against  the  panel,  and  gathering  all 
his  strength  for  the  effort,  forced  it  open.  The  broken  lock  clanged  on 
the  floor  as  he  crossed  the  threshold. 

Paul  gazed  upon  the  room  ;  it  looked  just  as  it  had  looked  on  the  last 
night  of  1774. 

There  was  the  altar  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  place,  with  the  White 
Urn  upon  its  surface. 

"Even  now  I  see  him  —  my  father — as  he  stood  beside  that  altar,  and 
placed  his  hand  within  the  Urn — " 

Paul  placed  his  hand  within  the  urn,  and  drew  forth  a  letter  stamped 
with  his  father's  seal,  and  bearing,  in  the  tremulous  characters  of  his 
father's  handwriting,  his  own  name — <  Paul  Ardenheim  !' 

Paul  broke  the  seal.  Within  the  letter  was  enclosed  another  letter,  also 
sealed  and  endorsed  with  the  name  of  Paul  Ardenheim.  It  fell  back  into 
the  Urn,  as  Paul  held  the  open  letter  to  the  light,  and  read  these  words  in 
his  father's  hand — 

After  midnight,  January  1st,  1775. 

My  Son — 

Within  an  hour  I  will  exact  from  you  a  Promise  and  an  Oath.  The 
Promise — you  are  not  to  enter  this  chamber,  nor  place  your  hand  within 
this  Urn,  until  a  year  has  passed. 


284  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

The  Oath — you  will  not  enter  the  chamber  whose  panel  bears  the  sign 
of  the  Cross,  until  I  am  dead,  under  peril  of  a  father's  curse  and  the  guilt 
of  the  Unpardonable  Sin. 

Before  you  look  upon  the  name  of  the  Deliverer,  you  will  be  made 
acquainted  with  the  Secret  of  the  Sealed  Chamber,  which  involves  your 
Destiny  and  mine. 

Within  a  year  I  will  be  dead.  At  the  hour  of  my  death,  you  will  enter 
the  Sealed  Chamber;  one  year  from  to-day  you  will  enter  the  Chamber 
of  the  Urn.  Thus  you  can  obey  your  promise,  your  oath,  and  at  the  same 
time  learn  within  a  year,  the  Secret  of  the  Sealed  Chamber  and  the  Name 
of  the  Deliverer. 

That  brief  year  rolls  away — it  is  the  appointed  hour.  *  *  *  It  is  the 
first  of  January,  1776.  *  *  * 

You  have  broken  the  seal — the  letter  which  contains  the  narrow  strip 
of  paper,  on  which  the  Deliverer  wrote  his  name,  is  in  your  hand. 

At  this  moment,  my  son,  I  charge  thee — Remember  the  vow  which  thou 
didst  take  upon  thy  soul,  when  thou  wert  initiated  into  the  brotherhood 
of  the  R.  C,  on  the  night  of  the  first  of  January,  1775. 

Remember  the  words  written  in  the  Chambers  of  the  Brothers,  Anselm, 
Joseph,  Immanuel. 

Has  the  Lead  indeed  become  Gold  with  thee,  and  hath  the  Sneer  in  truth 
been  changed  into  a  Smile  ?  Hast  thou  forced  the  Heart  to  reveal  by  bold- 
ly grasping  the  Hand  ? 

Hast  thou  discovered  at  the  feet  of  the  Imprisoned,  the  D  — 

Hast  thou,  in  a  word,  learned  the  truth  embodied  in  these  enigmas,  and 
seen  Union  lead  to  Freedom,  and  Freedom  end  in  Brotherhood  ? 

Hast  thou,  in  the  Chapel  of  the  R.  C,  beheld  the  Altar,  the  Bowl,  and 
the  Book,  and  been  nerved  by  their  memories  for  the  great  task  which 
awaits  thee  ? 

Then  thou  art  indeed  prepared  to  read  the  name  of  the  Deliverer  ;  but 
not  until  these  mysteries  are  to  thy  soul  as  the  sunlight  is  to  thine  eyes, 
shalt  thou  break  the  seal  which  conceals  that  name. 

Your  Father. 

It  will  be  remembered,  that  the  old  man,  on  the  Last  Night  of  1774, 
bade  Paul  prepare  for  a  solemn  ceremony,  which  was  to  take  place  at 
sunset  on  the  next  day. 

This  ceremony,  it  will  be  seen  by  the  preceding  letter,  comprised  not 
only  a  Vow  of  Celibacy,  but  an  initiation  into  a  secret  Order,  designated 
above  as  the  Brotherhood  of  the  R.  C. 

This  letter,  written  after  midnight,  on  the  first  of  January,  1775,  by  the 
Father  of  Paul,  anticipates  the  initiation  and  the  vow,  and  regards  thern  as 
having  already  taken  place. 

It  will  also  be  perceived,  that  the  old  man  intended  the  letter  to  apply 
to  the  first  of  January,  1776. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


285 


CHAPTER  TWELFTH. 

THE   HEART  REVEALS  ONLY   WHEN  THE   HAND   IS   BOLDLY  GRASPED. 

"I  have  no  right  to  break  the  seal.  For  these  mysteries  are  all  wrapt 
in  impenetrable  gloom.  The  Lead  has  not  become  Gold,  nor  has  the 
Sneer  been  changed  into  a  Smile.  I  have  not  forced  the  Heart  to  reveal 
by  boldly  grasping  the  Hand.  At  the  feet  of  the  Imprisoned  I  have  not 
discovered  the  Doom,'  or — is  it  Danger  ?" 

Paul  dwelt  with  a  painful  intensity  upon  these  cabalistic  sentences. 

"  Ah,  fatal,  fatal  night,  when  I  dared  to  violate  my  oath,  and  rush  un- 
called into  the  presence  of  my  fate  !" 

Strange  it  was  that  no  word  of  reproach  passed  his  lips  in  regard  to  the 
beautiful  woman  who  had  urged  him  to  his  ruin,  on  that  fatal  night!  'Not 
a  word  of  reproach,  nor  yet  of  memory.  Since  he  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  Block-House,  an  hour  ago,  he  had  not  spoken  her  name. 

Placing  his  hand  within  the  Urn,  he  drew  forth  the  sealed  letter  which 
concealed  the  name  of  the  Deliverer. 

"  One  movement  of  my  finger,  and  it  is  broken  ;  but  no— no !  I  am  not 
worthy — " 

He  gazed  upon  it  with  an  earnest  eye  and  dropped  it  back  into  the  Urn. 

"Hah  !  alight  breaks  on  me — "  he  murmured,  and  hastened  from  the 
room  without  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

He  did  not  stay  his  footsteps  until  he  stood  in  front  of  the  door  which 
opened  into  his  father's  room.  Not  an  instant  did  he  hesitate.  The  door 
opened  at  his  touch,  and  by  the  torch-light  he  beheld  that  chamber,  where, 
on  the  last  night  of  1774,  he  had  seen  the  leaden  Image  scowling  over  the 
sleeping  face  of  his  father. 

Paul  advanced ;  he  beheld  the  couch — it  was  vacant ;  he  raised  his  eyes, 
and  with  a  shudder,  saw  that  leaden  face,  smiling  in  the  red  rays,  as  with 
a  preternatural  scorn. 

Still,  in  the  recess,  at  <he  head  of  the  couch,  stood  the  Imag-e  of  the 
"Imprisoned  Soul,"  with  its  form  attired  in  the  rude  garments  of  a  toiling 
man,  its  hand  extended,  and  that  sublimity  of  sadness  stamped  upon  its 
sombre  face. 

"He  is  not  here,"  cried  Paul,  with  an  accent  of  unfeigned  joy — "Ah ! 
The  coverlet  yet  bears  the  impress  of  his  form.  'Tis  as  he  left  it  on  the 
fatal  nio-ht." 

He  did  not,  pause  to  think.  To  pause  at  a  moment  like  this,  was  to 
become  a  raving  maniac.    He  seized  the  extended  hand  of  the  Image,  and 


286 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


pressed  it  firmly,  at  the  same  time  looking  steadily  into  its  sad  and 
motionless  eyes. 

Had  his  hand  touched  some  secret  spring  ?  A  square  space  in  the  breast 
of  the  Image  opened  like  a  door — a  packet  fell  at  the  feet  of  Paul — and  the 
breast  of  the  Image  closed  again. 

Paul  seized  the  packet;  it  was  a  scroll  of  manuscript,  written  in  the 
German  tongue,  with  a  few  words  in  English  on  an  outside  leaf : 

—  uTo  be  read  by  my  Son,  after  lie  has  entered  the  Sealed  Chamber  and 
the  Chamber  of  the  Urn." 

These  words  were  written  in  a  bold  round  hand,  and  beneath  appeared 
other  words,  in  a  hand  that  was  tremulous  with  age  or  disease. 

"Paul,  you  have  often  heard  me  relate  the  Legend  of  the  Leaden  Image. 
It  is  more  intimately  connected  with  your  Destiny  than  you  may  imagine. 
After  you  have  entered  the  Sealed  Chamber,  and  the  Chamber  of  the  Urn, 
and  before  you  have  broken  the  seal  which  hides  the  name  of  the  Deliverer, 
read  the  history  of  the  Leaden  Image,  written  in  the  German  tongue  by 
Brother  Anselm.  Do  not  wonder  if  this  history  is  widely  different  from 
that  which  you  have  often  heard  from  me.  You  are  now  prepared  for  all 
the  truth  ;  read.  And  even  amid  the  sarcasm  which  sometimes  mars  the 
narrative  of  Lrother  Anselm,  learn  the  history  of  the  Image,  which  now 
gazes  sadly  upon  your  face.  You  have  seen  'that  the  heart  reveals  only 
when  the  hand  is  boldly  grasped.'  It  is  now  your  destiny  to  learn,  how 
the  Lead  will  become  Gold,  and  the  Sneer  be  changed  into  a  Smile.  At 
the  feet  of  the  Imprisoned  you  will  discover  the  D  ." 

"  Again  that  word  is  blotted  and  dim  !    Is  it  Doom  or  is  it  Danger  ?" 

Paul  seized  the  manuscript  of  Brother  Anselm,  and  still  holding  the 
torch  in  his  hand,  hurried  from  the  room.  He  was  afraid  to  read  it  there, 
for  his  father's  face  seemed  to  start  from  the  shadows,  as  he  looked  upon 
the  bed,  yet  bearing  the  impress  of  a  venerable  form,  the  memory  of  the 
sacrilegious  blow  came  terribly  to  his  soul. 

"  In  the  free  air,  by  the  light  of  the  summer  sun,  I  will  read  these 
pages — "  he  cried;  and  soon  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  Block-House, 
with  the  sunshine  upon  his  face. 

He  seated  himself  upon  an  old  bench,  half-concealed  by  the  grass,  which 
started  up  thickly  in  the  space  before  the  Block-House  -door. 

The  hour  was  invested  with  a  peculiar  solemnity.  The  summer  wind 
rustling  softly  among  the  forest  leaves,  gave  a  lulling  music  to  the  scene. 
Belts  of  golden  sunshine,  belts  of  tremulous  shadow,  flitted  by  turns  over 
the  grass,  the  flowers,  over  the  form  of  Paul  and  the  Block-House  clad 
in  vines. 

"It  is  yet  two  hours  until  sunset,"  exclaimed  Paul,  as  he  gazed  upon 
the  manuscript  and  absently  glanced  over  its  pages.  "I  will  have  time  to 
read, — to  know  at  last  the  reality  of  my  fate — ere  the  moment  of  my  meet- 
ing Reginald  arrives.    Hah  !"  he  cried,  arrested  by  a  word  which  seemed 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


287 


to  separate  itself  from  a  page  of  the  manuscript,  and  force  its  meaning  on 
his  soul—"  Brotherhood  of  the  Rosy  Cross  !" 

Let  us  look  upon  those  mysterious  pages,  which  seemed  to  open  to  his 
eyes  the  secrets  of  the  other  world.  Let  us  translate  the  bold  German 
into  English  as  rude  and  bold. 

This  was  the  Manuscript  which  Paul  Ardenheim  read,  on  that  summer 
day  in  June,  as  he  sat  upon  the  bench,  half-concealed  by  the  grass,  which 
started  up  thickly  around  the  Block  House  door. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEENTH. 

I.  THE  SACRAMENT  OF  THE  POOR. 

"A  wooden  cup,  filled  with  water,  emblematic,  not  of  blood,  but  of 
tears — a  loaf  of  coarse  bread,  such  as  is  now  the  food  of  serf  and  slave, 
such  as  was  once  the  food  of  Jesus  *  *  ■  *  Behold  the  Sacrament  of  the 
Poor!" 

These  words  were  spoken  many  hundred  years  ago,  in  a  wide  and 
lofty  temple. 

There  was  no  sunlight  there.  Torches  held  aloft  by  the  arms  of  stal- 
wart men,  gave  a  red  light  to  the  place  of  prayer.  It  was  a  Cathedral ; 
but  no  human  hand  had  raised  its  arch.    Almighty  God  was  the  Architect. 

The  torchlight  glared  upon  the  roof  of  the  cavern,  and  disclosed  the 
forms  of  four  thousand  kneeling  worshippers.  Beneath  that  gloomy  arch, 
while  the  deathly  stillness  of  the  cavern  brooded  all  around,  they  knelt; 
afar  from  the  light  of  the  summer  sun,  afar  from  the  dismal  battle-fields 
which  blackened  the  valleys  of  Bohemia,  afar  from  the  world,  the  church, 
the  stern  faces  of  the  monarch  and  the  priest. 

In  the  centre  of  the  cavern,  an  old  man,  whose  rude  garment  and  snow- 
white  hair  gave  him  an  appearance  at  once  venerable  and  apostolic,  stood 
erect,  his  feet  placed  upon  a  rock,  which  rose  from  the  stone  floor,  like  an 
altar  from  the  floor  of  a  church. 

Around  this  rock  stood  four  men,  whose  foreheads  bore  the  marks  of 
much  toil — the  scars  of  battle  and  the  stolid  apa:hy  of  sullen  endurance — 
and  in  their  right  hands  they  raised  the  blazing  pine-knots  above  their 
heads.    They  wore  swords  at  their  sides. 

"My  brothers — "  said  the  old  man,  and  he  beheld  the  old  men  and  the 


288 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


brown-haired  youth  who  knelt  upon  the  cavern  floor — "My  sisters — "  and 
he  gazed  upon  the  women,  the  daughters  of  the  poor,  who,  coarsely  attired, 
yet  with  a  rude,  wild  beauty  in  their  sunburnt  faces,  had  come  to  the  re- 
cesses of  the  earth,  so  that  they  might  freely  worship  God.  "My  chil- 
dren— "  the  gray  eye  of  the  aged  man,  glancing  far  through  the  cavern, 
whose  expansive  roof  glowed  redly  with  the  torch-light,  beheld  the  bowed 
heads  of  four  thousand  men  and  women.  A  death-like  stillness  reigned. 
Only  the  tremulous  voice  of  that  old  man,  and  the  murmuring  of  an  earth- 
hidden  stream  were  heard. 

"My  brothers,  my  sisters,  my  children:  we  have  come  here  to  spend 
an  hour  with  God.  Many  battles  have  been  fought:  our  native  land  has 
grown  rich  in  graves.  Still  there  is  no  peace  for  us  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Banished  from  Church  and  Cathedral — hurled  like  savage  beasts 
from  the  light  of  the  sun,  this  place  at  least  is  free.  In  this  temple,  not 
made  with  hands,  but  shapen  by  Jehovah,  we  can  commune  for  an  hour, 
with  our  Father.  Around  this  communion  altar  of  our  Lord,  we  can  forget 
all  that  is  dark  and  evil  in  the  world,  and  only  remember  that  we  all  are 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  that  the  good  God  is  our  Father." 

He  paused  for  an  instant,  while  his  withered  hand  was  laid  upon  his 
coarse  garment. 

"Let  us  partake  of  the  Sacrament  of  our  Lord  Jesus  together,  and  with 
one  heart,  my  children  ! 

"  There  is  no  golden  goblet  here,  to  scare  the  poor  man  from  the  table 
of  the  Lord — no  costly  wine,  to  make  him  feel  ashamed  of  his  poverty. 
*  *  *  A  wooden  cup,  filled  with  water,  emblematic,  not  of  blood,  but  of 
the  tears  of  Christ — a  loaf  of  coarse  bread,  such  as  is  now  the  food  of  serf 
and  slave,  such  as  was  once  the  food  of  Jesus  *  *  *  Behold  the  Sacrament 
of  the  Poor." 

On  a  rock  which  rose  before  him,  a  huge  wooden  bowl  was  placed.  It 
was  filled  to  the  brim  with  clear  cold  water.  Beside  it  lay  a  loaf  of  coarse 
bread ;  such  bread  as  the  poor  have  watered  with  their  tears,  and  crim- 
soned with  their  blood,  since  the  hour  when  "It  is  finished!"  quivered 
from  the  lips  of  a  God-like  face,  that  smiled  over  the  multitude  of  Calvary. 

"It  is  not  for  us,"  the  aged  man  exclaimed — "not  for  us  to  drink  the 
blood  of  Christ.    We  can  only  tell  him  our  anguish,  and  drink  his  tears." 

This  wooden  bowl,  filled  only  with  water,  this  loaf  of  coarse  bread, — 
the  black  bread  of  serfdom  and  manacled  labor — was  the  Sacrament  which 
the  four  thousand  hunted  outcasts  were  about  to  share  together. 

The  heads  of  the  multitude  were  raised ;  kneeling  on  the  cavern  floor, 
they  saw  the  rock,  the  bowl  and  the  bread;  while,  standing  out  from  the 
blackness,  the  figure  of  that  solitary  old  man  shone  in  the  torchlight. 

"One  is  absent  from  our  feast — "  the  old  man  said.  And  from  tongue! 
innumerable  trembled  the  name  of  the  absent  one,  and  prayers  were  uttered 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


230 


fervently,  and  hearts  spoke  earnestly  to  God,  at  the  mention  of  the  absent 
Brother. 

"John  Huss  !" — the  gloomy  cavern  echoed  with  the  name. 

"  He  has  gone  to  Constance ;  gone  to  meet  the  vassals  of  Anti-Christ ; 
gone  alone,  to  assert,  in  the  faces  of  Kings,  that  Faith  which  the  Lord 
Jesus  delivered  many  hundred  years  ago  to  his  People,  the  Poor.  And 
all  the  chains,  and  scourges,  and  swords  of  the  Priest  and  the  King  have 
not  been  able  to  rend  that  faith  from  the  hearts  of  the  poor,  through  the 
long  night  of  ages.  We  hold  it  still,  and  to  us  it  says — as  it  will  say  for 
ever  to  our  children — that  great  multitude  who  are  born  only  to  toil  and 
die  ! — 4  The  Lord  Jesus  was  a  son  of  toil,  and  he  is  the  only  Redeemer 
of  the  Poor.'  " 

The*old  man's  voice  was  no  longer  weak  and  tremulous.  It  gathered 
strength  as  his  eye  brightened  into  new  life.  His  tones,  strong  with  al- 
most preternatural  vigor,  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  dismal  cavern.  Not  an 
ear  but  heard  his  words,  not  a  heart  but  throbbed  quicker  at  their  sound. 

"  My  brothers,  my  sisters,  ere  we  share  the  Communion  of  our  Lord, 
let  us  pray  for  the  absent  one  !" 

All  was  still  as  the  old  man  knelt  upon  the  rock.  Every  murmur  was 
hushed,  but  the  hands  of  the  people  were  clasped  with  great  earnestness, 
and  their  faces  were  stamped  with  a  silent  anguish. 

It  was  a  solemn  sight  to  see  that  outcast  old  man,  whose  hairs  had 
grown  gray  in  damnable  heresy,  kneeling  alone  upon  the  rock,  while  four 
thousand  outcast  men  and  women  knelt  around  him,  and  his  lips  uttered 
an  earnest  though  blasphemous  prayer  for  the  absent  outcast — for  John 
Huss,  the  wretched  Heretic,  who  had  gone  to  Constance,  to  tell  conse- 
crated Priests  that  their  golden  garments  were  stained  with  the  blood  of 

the  Poor ;  to  confront  anointed  Kings  with  the  blasphemous  assertion  

"Ye  are  guilty  in  the  sight  of  God.  Your  thrones  are  built  upon  the 
skulls  of -the  human  race  ;  even  amid  the  sunshine  of  your  royal  sway,  I 
see  the  darkening  cloud  of  Almighty  anger." 

After  the  prayer  was  said— every  word  echoed  by  the  throb  of  four 
thousand  hearts — the  old  man  rose,  and  the  four  men  who  held  their 
"torches  near  him,  placed  a  veiled  figure  by  his  side.  They  lifted  it  from 
the  cavern  floor,  and  raised  it  with  a  sturdy  impulse  upon  the  rock.  It 
may  have  been  a  living  being,  or  only  a  dumb  thing  of  metal  or  of  stone, 
— perchance  a  skeleton,  which  once  was  a  soul — but  no  eye  might  behold 
its  outlines,  for  a  veil  of  sackcloth  covered  it  from  head  to  foot. 

Much  wonder  was  there  in  the  earth-hidden  vault,  as,  with  uplifted 
faces,  the  kneeling  people  beheld  the  sackcloth  which  enshrouded  the  un- 
known figure.  Murmurs  echoed  from  lip  to  lip,  until  the  broad  arch 
above  flung  back  their  accumulated  emphasis:  with  a  sound  like  thunder. 

The  old  man  placed  his  hands  upon  the  veiled  figure— every  withered 
line  of  his  face  was  stirred  by  emotion. 

m  *9 


290  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  In  a  few  moments  your  eyes  shall  behold  it.  Yet,  ere  we  mingle 
around  the  Altar  of  the  Sacrament,  let  me  repeat  to  you  all  a  strange 
history,  which  my  fathers  told  to  me  when  I  was  but  a  little  child.  After 
the  history  is  told,  I  will  lift  the  veil,  and  you  shall  behold  " 

He  glanced  toward  the  shrouded  thing,  and  while  every  heart  throbbed 
with  anxiety  to  hear  his  words,  he  uttered  the  history  which  old  men  had 
told  to  him. 

tiiji  •      .        pjiti  \u  fJ  ifc  i    ''nil  f.i<  \{  <t!iii^tf{f  f . n a^1  A«L .apH^^^^^^B 
Shall  we,  for  a  little  while,  leave  this  gloomy  cavern,  and  go  back  from 

the  age  of  John  Huss  into  other  and  more  distant  ages  ? 

Shall  we  dare  to  tell  the  incredible  history  of  that  shrouded  thing, 

which,  covered  with  sackcloth,  stood  on  the  rock  by  the  old  man's  side  ? 


CHAPTER  FOURTEENTH. 

II.  THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  TENTH  CENTURY. 

A  captive,  rising  from  the  straw  which  littered  the  floor  of  his  cell,  in 
scribed  on  the  dingy  wall,  these  figures — 

3651. 

Through  the  only  window  of  the  cell — narrow  and  high,  it  opened  to 
the  east,  permitting  a  glimpse  of  earth  and  sky  to  be  seen — came  the  soft 
warmth  of  a  declining  summer  day.  That  mild  glow  disclosed  the  bare 
walls,  the  high  arch,  the  miserable  straw,  which  littered  one  corner  of  the 
cell.  It  was  in  truth  a  desolate  place,  and  the  ray  of  sunlight  only  made 
it  seem  more  black  and  gloomy. 

As  the  Captive  rose,  it  might  be  seen  that  his  form  resembled  a  skeleton, 
endued  by  a  supernatural  hand  with  something  like  life,  and  clad  in  coarse 
attire,  with  thin  flakes  of  gray  hair  falling  about  his  bony  forehead  and 
hollow  cheeks.  He  walked  very  slowly  along  the  floor,  lifting  his  large 
eyes — which  all  the  while  seemed  like  lighted  coals  placed  in  the  orbits 
of  a  skull — toward  the  light,  and  bared  his  fleshless  arm. 

Then,  with  a  sharpened  nail,  he  pierced  a  shrunken  vein,  and  with  his 
blood,  traced  on  the  wall  of  the  cell  the  figures — 3651- — 

But  first,  he  effaced  from  the  wall  certain  figures  inscribed  in  dim  red 
characters — 3  650- — 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


291 


And  while,  with  the  point  of  the  rusted  nail,  moistened  by  his  blood, 
he  performed  this  singular  work,  like  a  man  influenced  by  a  solemn  vow, 
the  sunlight  shone  as  if  in  mockery  upon  his  skeleton  form,  and  played 
right  cheerily  with  his  bony  forehead,  and  large  brilliant  eyes. 

The  Captive  stood  with  folded  arms,  surveying  in  silence  the  figures 
he  had  written  with  his  blood.  It  was  as  though  some  harrowing  memory 
was  associated  with  those  red  characters,  for  not  for  a  single  moment  did 
his  gaze  wander,  or  the  expression  of  his  features  change. 

The  light  began  to  fade,  and  the  shadows,  which  had  assumed  various 
fantastic  forms,  gathered  in  one  vague  mass  around  the  solitary  captive. 

There  came  suddenly  through  the  thick  walls  a  low,  deep  sound,  which 
awoke  the  imprisoned  wretch  from  his  reverie.  Now  it  seemed  like  dis- 
tant music,  now  like  a  chorus  of  dying  groans,  now  like  the  accumulated 
whispers  of  an  affrighted,  panic-stricken  crowd.  It  was  only  the  organ  of 
a  chapel,  thundering  its  deep  tones  through  the  arches,  as  the  evening 
hour  brought  on  the  darkness. 

Not  far  from  the  Captive's  cell,  that  Chapel  disclosed  its  Image  of  the 
Virgin  to  the  last  kiss  of  day ;  indeed,  the  Chapel  and  the  cell  were  com- 
bined in  the  same  edifice,  a  Monastery,  whose  dark  spires  and  turrets  rose 
against  the  fresh  verdure  of  a  beautiful  valley. 

The  Captive  heard  the  sound  of  the  organ,  mingled  with  the  chaunting 
of  the  evening  hymn,  and  bent  his  head  lower  upon  his  breast,  raising  his 
eyes  all  the  while  from  beneath  his  compressed  brows,  to  gaze  upon  the 
red  figures — 3651. 

In  the  Chapel  of  the  Monastery,  that  organ  spoke  out  with  a  deep  voice 
of  music  and  religion,  and  the  vesper  hymn  pealing  from  the  lip  of  Monk 
and  Nun,  awoke  in  every  heart  a  living  hope  of  immortal  joy. 

But,  to  the  Captive  shut  out  from  all  the  world,  withered  by  hopeless 
imprisonment — blood,  and  heart,  and  brain  stricken  with  the  palsy  of 
despair — that  evening  mass,  echoing  through  the  thick  walls,  had  a  sin- 
gular message. 

It  did  not  say  to  his  leaden  ear — "Look  up,  child  of  God,  the  sun  is 
setting  over  hill  and  valley,  but  there  is  Hope  for  you  in  the  night,  and 
glory  in  the  cloud  !" 

To  him  it  spoke  with  a  far  different  voice.  As  he  bent  his  head,  and 
by  the  fading  light  beheld  the  mysterious  figures  traced  in  his  blood, 
growing  dim  and  dimmer  every  moment,  the  solemn  Mass,  chaunted  by 
Monk  and  Nun,  deepened  by  the  thunder-tone  of  the  organ,  uttered  a  sad 
message  : — It  said — 

"You  were  young.  Your  step  was  firm.  Your  eye  bright.  Your  heart 
full  of  life ;  and  your  brain  as  wide  and  free  in  its  thought  as  the  blue  sky 
of  heaven.  vNow  you  are  old.  miserably  old  ;  you  tremble  on  the  floor  of 
your  cell,  an  unburied  corse.  Once  a  father  blessed  you  as  you  crossed 
the  cottage  threshold — once  a  Mother  pressed  her  hands  upon  your  head, 


292  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

and  blessed  you,  as  the  Hope  which  God  had  given  to  her  old  age.  Once 
a  girl,  beautiful  even  in  her  homely  peasant  garb,  placed  her  hand  in 
yours,  and  promised  to  be  your  wife.  Now  look  from  yonder  window, 
and  behold  the  blackened  walls  of  your  ruined  home.  Look  beyond  those 
walls,  and  see^  the  graves  of  the  old  man,  your  father,  and  the  peasant 
woman,  your  mother.  Your  betrothed  ?  Seek  for  her  in  the  living  grave 
— in  the  tomb,  like  unto  that  which  encoffins  yourself — in  the  Convent 
cell,  a  pale,  withered  form,  shrouded  in  the  white  robe  of  a  nun  !" 

This  was  the  message  of  the  vesper  hymn  to  the  soul  of  the  solitary 
Captive.  For  ten  years  it  had  spoken  to  him  in  this  cell,  every  day  its 
message  pealing  sadder,  darker,  and  more  like  the  accents  of  hopeless 
despair. 

To  me,  the  image  of  that  solitary  Captive,  shut  out  from  the  world,  in 
the  Tenth  Century,  coffined  while  living  in  this  hopeless  imprisonment 
of  a  Bohemian  Monastery,  his  death-lighted  eyes  fixed  upon  the  figures, 
traced  on  the  damp  wall  with  his  blood,  presents  an  image  of  superhuman 
despair. 

He  could  see  the  blasted  roof-tree  of  his  home  from  the  window,  behold 
the  sunset  smiling  upon  the  graves  of  his  peasant  people — he  felt  that  his 
betrothed  peasant  wife,  transformed  into  a  nun — 1  a  living  corse,'  as  the 
old  books  have  it — was  near  him,  only  separated  by  a  solitary  wall.  And 
yet  he  did  not  gaze  from  the  window,  nor  listen  for  the  voice  of  his 
peasant  wife.  Roused  from  his  straw,  by  the  impulse  of  a  stern  and  sullen 
duty,  he  had  inscribed  those  mysterious  figures  on  the  wall,  and  stood 
gazing  upon  them  with  his  large  sad  eyes. 

The  Crime  of  this  wretch?  Wherefore  swept  away  from  humanity  and 
its  hopes,  into  the  life-in-death  of  this  cell  ?  Wherefore  trace  with  his 
blood  upon  the  wall,  the  figures  3651,  after  first  erasing  3650. 

We  dare  not  give  his  crime — have  not  the  language  to  penetrate  the 
mystery  of  those  crimson  numerals. 

Night  deepened  over  the  scene,  and  by  the  starlight  his  figure  was  dim- 
ly revealed,  still  standing  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  as  though  through  the 
darkness  he  sought  to  read  the  inexplicable  inscription. 

There  was  a  sound  of  jarring  bolts — the  tread  of  footsteps  in  the  passage 
—  and  the  door  of  the  cell,  rolling  on  its  hinges,  gave  passage  to  a  flood  of 
joyous  light.  Still  the  captive  did  not  turn;  the  warm  light,  streaming 
over  his  shoulders,  revealed  the  inscription,  and  for  the  first  time,  in  a  low 
voice,  he  spoke — 

"Three  thousand  six  hundred  and  fifty-one,"  he  said,  and  was  silent. 

And  all  the  while,  a  brave  company  of  monks  clad  in  satin  and  velvet, 
warriors  glittering  in  steel  and  gold,  came  thronging  througjkthe  doorway 
of  the  cell,  their  fine  attire  flashing. and  glancing  in  the  stro&gwradiance. 

And  the  gay  band — for 'even  the  monks,  with  faces  rounV  and  oily, 
seemed  joyous  in  the  plenteousness  of  flesh  and  soft  apparel — two  figures 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


293 


were  prominent.  One  was  a  Monk,  the  Abbot  of  the  Monastery ;  the 
other  a  Knight,  the  Lord  of  the  broad  lands,  extending  from  the  domains 
of  the  Monastery,  to  far-distant  forests. 

There  was  no  care  upon  the  Abbot's  face.  Corpulent  and  complacent, 
he  seemed  defended  from  all  thought  by  his  soft,  silken  gown ;  and  on  his 
rotund  form,  he  bore  a  shining  cross  of  gold,  hanging  to  his  apoplectic  neck 
by  a  golden  chain.  Above  the  vivid  redness  of  his  cheeks,  above  his 
small  eyes,  almost  hidden  in  laughing  wrinkles,  some  scattered  white  hairs 
gleamed,  like  scanty  snow-flakes  trembling  on  the  verge  of  a  red-hot  fur- 
nace. He  was  a  corpulent  man  and  a  righteous  withal — ah  !  had  you  but 
seen  his  complacent  smile  ripple  upward  over  his  unctuous  cheeks! 

As  he  beheld  the  captive,  a  look  of  compassion  seemed  struggling  into 
life  from  the  fulness  of  his  face. 

The  Warrior  by  his  side.  A  gaunt  form,  cased  in  armor  of  steel,  with 
a  gold  drop  sparkling  here  and  there,  and  a  huge  sword — it  was  two-handed 
—  hanging  from  his  left  shoulder  to  his  feet.  A  bunch  of  white  plumes 
waved  over  his  steel  helmet,  and  beneath  its  raised  vizor  appeared  his  face. 
The  features  coarse  and  bold,  the  eyebrows  thick  and  gray,  the  eyes  fierce 
and  penetrating,  the  wide  mouth  and  large  jaw  full  of  the  Iron  Will  of  an 
Iron  Soul. 

Even  his  face  gleamed  with  something  like  pity  as  his  sharp  eyes  rested 
upon  the  solitary  captive,  who,  with  his  back  turned  toward  the  brilliant 
company,  gazed  steadily  upon  the  wall. 

As  for  the  Monks  and  the  Soldiers,  who,  treading  at  the  heels  of  the 
Abbot  and  the  Lord,  came  thronging  over  the  threshold, — the  torches 
smoking  and  flaring  over  their  heads — they  watched  the  faces  of  their 
masters  for  a  moment,  and  then  took  courage  to  gather  something  like  pity 
into  their  eyes. 

The  Abbot  spoke.  It  would  have  done  you  good  to  hear  him.  So  soft, 
so  bland  his  tone,  gliding  from  his  lips  smooth  as  olive  oil  over  a  burnished 
platter. 

"  Wretch  !"  he  said. 

It  was  kindly  meant,  no  doubt,  but  the  captive  did  not  answer.  It  may 
be  that  he  did  not  hear  the  soft  word.  For  ten  years  no  human  being  had 
spoken  to  him  one  word  of  kindness,  and  it  was  plainly  to  be  seen,  that  his 
ears  were  sealed  to  any  thing  like  the  sound  of  a  human  voice. 

The  Lord  in  the  terrible  armor,  with  the  potent  sword  hanging  at  his 
shoulder,  now  essayed  his  power.    He  was  eloquent —  . 

"Heretic!"  he  said,  and  laid  his  hand,  gloved  in  steel,  upon  the  living 
skeleton. 

The  miserable  criminal  turned  slowly,  and  looked  with  his  large  eyes 
at  the  face  of  the  stern  Knight  aud  the  rotund  Abbot. 

"  Three  thousand  six  hundred  and  fifty-one — "  this  was  all  the  captive 


294  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

said,  and  his  sunken  cheeks  were  flushed  by  the  torch-light,  his  eyes, 
unnaturally  bright  at  all  times,  were  touched  with  a  mocking  glare. 

"  Michael—"  the  Abbot  placed  a  hand  glittering  with  rings  upon  the 
criminal's  tattered  garment — "  Do  you  repent  of  your  hideous  crime?  Do 
you  renounce  the  power  of  Lucifer  ?" 

The  prisoner,  folding  his  big  hands  over  his  sackcloth,  looked  vacantly 
in  the  face  of  the  Abbot.  It  was  a  pitiful  contrast.  That  dumb  Image  of 
Famine,  with  idiocy  glaring  from  the  large  eyeballs,  and  this  rotund  em- 
bodiment of  corpulence,  glowing  all  over  with  complacency  and  holiness. 
Here  a  skeleton  covered  with  sackcloth — There  an  Ideal  of  Flesh,  en- 
shrined in  satin,  with  such  a  gay  golden  cross,  moving  to  the  slow  pulsa- 
tions of  a  little  heart.    Indeed,  it  was  a  miserable  contrast. 

"I  will  try  him,  reverend  Father — "  said  the  Knight,  glancing  grimly 
over  his  servitors,  all  clad  in  armor,  terrible  with  club  of  iron  and  sword 
of  steel — "Michael,  would  you  like  a  little  sunlight, a  little  free  air?  Dost 
hear  me?  Would  you  like  to  feel  your  foot  upon  the  mountain  sod,  and 
draw  a  good  long  breath  of  freedom,  ere  you  die?" 

Something  like  intelligence  began  to  beam  in  the  big  eyes  of  the  wretch- 
ed man. 

"  Three  thousand  six  hundred  and  fifty-cwe,"  he  said  in  a  shrill  voice, 
slightly  raising  his  joined  hands. 

We  are  afraid  that  this  contrast  is  not  one  whit  less  pitiful  than  thj 
first.  Here  a  living  skeleton,  slightly  lifting  his  bony  hands,  while  some- 
thing like  reason  begins  to  beam  in  the  dumb  anguish  of  his  face — there  a 
splendid  warrior,  glowing  in  golden  helmet  and  snowy  plumes,  terrible 
with  steel  armor  and  two-handed  sword. 

"  Noble  Lord,  let  me  speak  to  him — "  and  the  good  Abbot,  wearing  on 
his  breast  a  golden  Cross, which  was  supposed  to  remind  him  of  the  Wooden 
Cross  on  which  a  long-suffering  Being  died  some  hundred  years  ago,  spoke 
blandly  to  the  Idiot — 

"Mary!"  he  said. 

At  once  the  dawning  intelligence  brightened  into  day.  The  Idiot's 
vacant  eye  burned  with  sudden  fire.  There  came  slowly  over  his  death's- 
head  face  a  glow,  that  lighted  up  the  sunken  features,  and  made  him  look 
like  a  living  man. 

"Mary!"  he  echoed,  and  then  relapsing  into  his  vacant  mood  again, 
murmured  with  a  sad  sm,ile — "  Three  thousand  six  hundred  and  fifty-owe." 

It  was  remarkable ;  he  ever  laid  a  peculiar  emphasis  on  the  word,  one. 

"  Wretch!  There  is  no  hope!"  the  Abbot  benevolently  said,  and  turned 
away. 

The  Monks,  as  though  answering  to  some  solemn  litany,  chorused — 
"  Wretch  !  There  is  no  hope  !"  . 

But  the  grim  Knight,  whose  features  bore  the  stern  impress  of  fifty 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


295 


years  of  blood,  looked  in  the  Idiot's  face  with  a  glance  that  seemed  some- 
thing like  compassion. 

"  I  will  rouse  him — "  he  roughly  said,  and  then  laying  a  hand  upon  the 
arm  of  the  captive,  began  in  his  abrupt,  impetuous  way — "Michael,  I  say, 
Michael,  dost  thou  remember  me,  my  boy?" 

The  Idiot's  face  was  vacant. 

"Thou  wert  once  a  page  in  the  hall  of  my  castle,  Michael.  A  braver 
youth  I  never  saw.  Light  in  step,  courtly  in  speech,  thine  eye  bright  and 
thy  form  like  a  vigorous  sapling.  Dost  remember  the  old  castle,  Michael  ? 
Thou  wert  a  peasant  lad,  the  son  of  a  serf,  and  yet  my  father  took  thee  to 
be  his  page.  Took  thee,  when  but  a  baby  on  thy  peasant  mother's  knee. 
And  dressed  thee  in  soft  apparel,  and  taught  thee  knightly  duty — God's 
blood — "  the  knight  swore  a  knightly  oath — "  Canst  thou  not  call  it  to 
mind  ?" 

Still  the  big  eyes  of  the  Idiot  glared  vacantly  upon  him.  No  touch  of 
humanity  there  !  A  skeleton  with  fire-coals  shining  from  the  orbits  of  his 
eyes — nothing  but  a  skeleton,  clad  in  sackcloth  and  placed  on  his  feet  by 
a  supernatural  power. 

"  Idiot !  He  cannot  remember — no  more  sense  than  a  rotten  piece 
of  wood  !" 

Here  the  soldiers,  true  to  their  duty,  repeated  their  lord's  ejaculation, 
looking  into  his  stern  face  all  the  while. 

"  I  will  touch  him  gently — "  whispered  the  excellent  Abbot,  advancing 
from  the  throng — "  Dost  thou  remember  me  ?  Thou  wert  wont  to  come 
oftentime,  from  the  Castle  to  the  Monastery,  dressed  like  a  gay  page, 
Michael — many  and  many  a  time.  And  an  aged  Brother  of  our  order 
taught  thee  to  read,  to  write,  Michael,  and  permitted  thee  to  read  the  books 
of  our  library,  my  good  child — " 

His  good  child  !  So  withered  in  his  sackcloth,  with  the  gray  hairs 
hanging  over  his  skull-like  face — a  very  strange  kind  of  child,  I  trow. 

"Dost  thou  remember  me,  Michael  ?" 

But  the  Idiot's  eyes  were  vacant  still. 

"  And  then,  Michael,  in  thy  journeys  from  the  Castle  to  the  Monastery," 
resumed  the  Abbot — "and  from  the  Monastery  to  the  Castle  back  again, 
thou  didst  chance  upon  a  peasant  girl,  wondrous  fair,  and  pleasant  to  look 
upon.  Thou  didst  exchange  vows  of  love  with  her,  with  Mary,  Michael 
— with  Mary,  I  say — Mary — " 

How  the  sudden  reason  looked  out  again  from  the  Idiot's  great  glittering 
eyeballs  ! 

"  Mary  !"  he  echoed — "  Mary  !"  and  he  raised  his  bony  hand  to  his 
forehead,  and  seemed  wrapt  in  thought.  He  removed  it  in  a  moment;  his 
face  was  pitiful  and  vacant  again ;  slowly  down  his  hollow  cheek  rolled  a 
single  tear. 


296  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

The  grim  Lord  bade  the  soldier  by  his  side  to  turn  his  torch  away,  for 
said  he,  with  a  lordly  curse — "The  light  hurts  mine  eyes!" 

But  the  corpulent  Abbot,  determined  to  restore  the  wretch  to  something 
like  reason,  went  on  in  his  pleasant  voice — 

"  But  then,  Michael,  loved  as  thou  wert  by  all  within  Castle  and 
Monastery,  pledged  in  vows  of  betrothal  to  this  peasant  maid,  thou  didst 
at  once  dash  thy  best  hopes  into  dust,  by  a  hideous  crime.  Thou  didst 
—  blessed  saints  be  merciful  to  me,  for  I  can  scarce  gather  strength  to  speak 
it ! — violate  all  laws,  human  and  divine,  and  crimson  thy  soul  with  the 
guilt  of  unpardonable  sin.  'Tis  ten  years  since  we  endeavored  to  preserve 
thy  soul  from  utter  ruin,  by  a  little  needful  and  blessed  severity.  We 
separated  thee  and  thy  peasant  bride.  We  consigned  thee  to  the  silence 
and  seclusion  of  this  cell;  first  forcing  upon  thee  the  solemn  vow  of  our 
order.  And  as  thy  father  and  mother,  Michael,  participated  in  thy  guilt, 
we  made  a  blessed  example  from  their  ashes — " 

"I  remember  the  day  when  they  were  burned — "  suggested  the  Knight. 

"Mary,  my  page — "  he  looked  into  Michael's  vacant  face — "was 
forced  to  take  the  veil  in  the  convent  after — " 

He  paused  suddenly.  At  the  word  "after"  the  Idiot's  eyes  again  flashed 
with  a  sudden  consciousness ;  his  lips  moved.  His  long  knotted  fingers 
were  clenched  with  a  violent  gesture. 

"After?"  What  did  it  mean,  that  word  which  died  half-uttered  on  the 
tongue  of  the  noble  Lord  ?  Perchanee  some  allusion  to  an  illustrious 
custom  of  the  ancient  days,  which  gave  to  the  Lord  of  broad  lands  un- 
limited control  over  the  life  and  person  of  any  serf  who  might  chance  to  be 
born  upon  those  lands. 

"  Thou  didst,  Michael,  commit  the  unpardonable  crime,"  the  good 
Abbot  continued,  crossing  his  hands  upon  his  robust  body — "Dost  thou 
repent  of  it,  now  ?" 

The  Idiot's  eyes  were  blank  as  white  parchment. 

"  Didst  not,  Michael, — I  speak,  my  good  child,  for  the  good  of  thy  soul 
— go  into  the  hot  fields,  where  the  serfs  were  at  their  toil,  and  tell  them» 
that  the  good  God  would  one  day  give  to  them — the  hewers  and  the  dig- 
gers— the  land  on  which  they  spent  their  sweat  and  blood?  Didst  thou 
not  dare  to  take  the  Bible  from  our  Monastery,  and  tell  the  serfs  such 
damnable  falsehood  as  this,  and  also  assert,  that  it  was  written  on  the 
holy  page  ?" 

The  Monks  groaned  in  horror — the  soldiers  joined  in  chorus. 

"  Three  thousand  six  hundred  and  fifty-o?ze,"  murmured  the  Idiot. 

"  Didst  thou  not  stand  by  the  wayside,  and  tell  the  gaping  serfs,  that 
the  Church  was  a  Lie,  built  up  in  stone  and  plaster  ;  and  the  Castle  a 
Blasphemy,  cemented  in  blood;  and  that  both  Church  and  Castle  stood 
upon  foundations  of  human  skulls  ?  That  Monk  and  Lord  were  combined 
in  an  unholy  league,  whose  motto  was  evermore,— '  Shame  to  the 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


297 


Carpenter's  So?i,  and  death  to  his  brothers  and  sisters,  the  Poor' — It 
makes  my  blood  run  cold  to  speak  it !" 

"  Thou  didst  call  the  Lord  Jesus  a  Carpenter's  Son — "  cried  the  awe- 
stricken  Knight.    "  Thou  didst.    With  my  own  ears  I  heard  thee  !" 

In  answer  to  these  terrible  accusations,  the  Idiot-captive  said  never  an 
intelligent  word;  only  unclosing  his  shrivelled  lips  to  murmur,  "  Three 
thousand  six  hundred  and  fifty-cwe  /" 

"  And  then,  Michael — poor  boy — grown  bold  in  crime,  as  the  serfs  fol- 
lowed thee  in  crowds  to  the  mountain  side,  and  listened  to  thy  ravings  all 
day  long,  thou  didst  even  spread  the  Bible  before  their  unlearned  eyes,  and 
utter  a  heresy  too  damnable  for  repetition.  Yet  I  will  repeat  it,  in  order 
to  impress  upon  thy  soul  the  full  enormity  of  thy  crime.  '  The  day  comes,'' 
thus  thou  didst  speak — '  when  there  shall  be  nor  Priest,  nor  Lord,  nor 
Castle,  nor  Church.  Then  shall  the  earth  become  a  garden,  and  all  men 
be  brothers,  in  the  7iame  of  t/ie  Lord  Jesus,  the  Messiah  of  the  Poor.' " 

The  Monks  and  the  soldiers  started  back  with  one  impulse  of  horror, 
leaving  the  corpulent  Abbot  in  his  satin,  and  the  Knight  in  his  armor,  alone 
with  the  blasphemous  wretch. 

"But  I  came  upon  thy  serfs  and  thee,  with  my  good  riders — "  the 
Knight  said,  benevolently.  "  It  was  at  night,  and  ye  were  standing  on  the 
mountain  side.  We  came  upon  your  band  of  Rebels  and  Heretics,  with 
club  and  sword.  Only  one  was  spared. — Michael,  thou  wert  the  only  one 
out  of  some  fourscore.    We  spared  thee  —  " 

"  In  mercy  !"  smiled  the  Abbot,  smoothing  the  creases  in  his  robe  with 
his  fat  hands — "In  compassion." 

The  Idiot-Captive  raised  his  arm,  withered  as  a  branch  of  dead  pine,  and 
marked  with  innumerable  minute  scars. 

"  Three  thousand  six  hundred  and  fifty-one,"  he  muttered,  turning  his 
large  eyes  from  face  to  face. 

"What  means  he  by  those  idle  words,  which  he  repeats  so  often?"  and 
the  good  Abbot  turned  his  round  face  toward  his  dear  children,  the  Monks. 

A  Monk  with  thin  sharp  features  gave  answer — 

"  It  has  been  my  office  to  bring  bread  and  water  to  him,"  he  said,  point- 
ing to  the  captive  Blasphemer — "  And  I  have  noticed  every  day  a  different 
number  writ  on  the  wall,  in  blood-red  letters.  Yesterday,  'twas — I  mark- 
ed it  well, — three,  six,  five  and  a  nought.  To-day,  'tis  three,  six,  five 
and  one.    'Tis  writ  with  a  sharp  nail,  and  a  little  blood  from  his  arm." 

"Strange!  passing  strange — "  ejaculated  the  good  Abbot — "What  can 
the  Idiot  mean  !" 

"  Days !"  exclaimed  the  captive,  in  a  shrill  tone,  whose  maniac  boldness 
startled  every  spectator.    "  Days  !" 

And  with  his  long  bony  finders  he  pointed  to  the  blood-red  figures  on 
the  dingy  wall. 

At  once  a  light  dawned  on  the  Abbot's  soul. 


293 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


"  Holy  Apostles  !  The  heretic  means  to  say  that  he  has  been  imprisoned 
just  three  thousand  six  hundred  and  Miy-one  days.  Malignant  even  in 
his  madness  !    He  has  written  it  upon  the  wall,  with  his  blood—" 

Extending  his  hand,  the  reverend  Abbot  pointed  to  the  wall,  while  his 
round  visage,  glowing  with  a  godly  fervor,  was  turned  toward  the  stern 
countenance  of  the  Land-Lord  by  his  side. 

There  was  .a  pause  of  breathless  stillness. 

44  To  write  the  number  of  days  with  his  blood!"  gasped  the  Abbot. 
It  seemed  a  thoroughly  blasphemous  thing,  in  the  eyes  of  the  reverend 
man. 

"  But  we  must  not  forget  our  purpose,"  suggested  the  Knight—"  I  have 
the  gold,  and  it  may  as  well  be  turned  to  account  for  the  good  of  my  soul." 

"  'Tis  a  holy  impulse  my  son,  which  guides  thy  actions.  In  a  battle 
with  a  Lord  whose  estate  is  next  thine  own,  thou  didst  sack  his  castle, 
put  his  people  to  the  sword,  and  take  his  daughter  for  thy  leman.  Thou 
wouldst  make  friends  with  Heaven  and  St.  Peter,  by  giving  unto  our 
Monastery  a  goodly  store  of  gold.    Is  it  thus,  brave  Knight?" 

"  Even  so.  I  would  have  the  gold  transformed  into  an  Image  of  the 
Blessed  Saviour,  which  shall  stand  above  the  Chapel-Altar,  as  a  token  of 
my  pious  thought — " 

"And  as  Michael  here  was  somewhat  cunning  in  the  arts  of  painting 
and  sculpture, — that  is,  before  we  imprisoned  him — it  was  thy  purpose  to 
offer  him  life  and  freedom,  on  condition  that  he  moulded  an  Image  of  the 
Lord  from  your  gold?" 

"  It  was,"  said  the  Knight — "But  there  is  no  hope.  His  mind  is  utterly 
gone.    See  !  How  he  clutches  at  the  light!" 

Indeed  the  appearance  of  the  wretch  was  very  pitiful.  Fixing  his  great 
eyes  upon  the  light,  he  seemed  to  behold  phantoms,  invisible  to  all  other 
eyes,  for  his  extended  hands  clutched  nervously  at  the  vacant  air. 

"Michael,"  said  the  Abbot — "  Let  me  clasp  thy  hand.  Turn  thine  eyes 
upon  me.  Thou  mayst  be  free.  Thou  shalt  behold  thy  Mary  once 
more — " 

The  great  eyes,  glassy  with  a  vacant  stare,  shone  with  soul. 
"  Mary  !"  and  the  miserable  man  clasped  the  fat  hand  of  the  Abbot,  and 
looked  with  intelligent  earnestness  into  his  face. 
Again  the  Abbot  uttered  his  words  of  mercy — 

"  Free,  I  say  !  Thou  shalt  be  led  forth  into  the  open  air  and  the  warm 
sunshine.  Thou  shalt  behold  thy  plighted  wife — Dost  hear  me,  Michael? 
Dost  repent  of  thy  heresy?" 

"Heresy  !"  echoed  the  captive,  in  a  mild  tone — "I  had  a  wild  dream, 
but  it  is  over  now.  Do  with  me  what  you  will,  only  let  me  feel  my  foot 
upon  the  mountain  side,  and  inhale  one  long  breath  of  air — free  air,  and  I 
will  come  to  my  cell  again,  and  die.  I  promise  this,  good  sirs, — I  swear 
it  — 1 — " 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAIIIKON. 


299 


He  knelt  at  their  feet,  joining  his  knotted  fingers,  as  he  rolled  his  eyes 
from  face  to  face. 

"He  consents,"  said  the  Abbot,  with  a  smile — "He  will  mould  for  us 
the  Golden  Image  of  the  Redeemer  !" 

Far  through  the  blackness  of  night  glared  a  vague  mass  of  flame,  now 
looking  like  a  luminous  cloud,  now  like  an  immense  ball  of  fire.  It  shone 
half-way  up  the  mountain  side,  and  was  regarded  by  the  serfs  of  the  Bo- 
hemian valley  with  great  wonder  and  awe.  Even  those  who  were  in  the 
secret,  and  knew  the  cause  of  this  light,  could  not  see  the  glaring  through 
the  darkness  without  a  sensation  akin  to  fear. 

It  was  nothing  more  than  the  light  of  a  furnace  shining  from  the  mouth 
of  a  cavern. 

Before  that  cavern,  on  the  rocky  ground,  men-at-arms,  cased  in  iron, 
strode  to  and  fro,  and  within  its  walls,  the  captive  Michael  toiled  steadily 
at  his  task.  They  had  built  him  a  furnace,  supplied  him  with  wax,  with 
clay,  with  lead,  with  heaps  of  gold,  and  given  him  the  aid  of  sinewy  arms, 
so  that  he  might  mould,  even  from  the  intense  flame,  a  glittering  Image  of 
the  Redeemer. 

For  many  weary  days,  for  countless  long  and  dreary  nights,  the  men-at- 
arms  kept  watch  in  front  of  the  cavern,  while  the  Heretic  toiled  within. 
They  could  see  him  hurrying  to  and  fro,  in  the  glare  of  the  intolerable 
flame ;  his  skeleton  form  and  haggard  face,  touched  by  the  intense  light, 
making  him  resemble  the  Demon  of  some  monkish  Legend.  And  the 
stern  soldiers,  accustomed  to  battle,  and  familiar  with  blood,  trembled  at 
the  sight  of  this  miserable  wretch,  who  toiled  near  the  furnace  in  the 
mountain  cavern. 

Sometimes,  at  dead  of  night,  while  his  work  was  in  progress,  he  would 
come  to  the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  and  standing  thus,  between  the  mountain 
and  the  light,  gaze  silently  on  the  slumbering  valley.  No  one  spoke  to 
him.  Even  the  serfs,  who  aided  him  in  the  mere  physical  portion  of  his 
task,  shrank  from  his  touch.  They  beheld  him  hover  round  the  flame, 
they  saw  him  shape  his  model  of  wax  and  encase  it  in  a  rough  coffin  of 
clay,  and  at  his  command,  piled  the  fire-wood  all  about  it,  until  the  heat 
blasted  their  eyesight.  But  no  one  dared  to  speak  to  him — He  was  ac- 
cursed; he  had  made  a  compact  with  the  Fiend—"  Heretic  !"  they  whisper- 
ed, pointing  with  a  stealthy  gesture  at  the  skeleton  figure  near  the  flame. 

At  last  the  statue  was  done.  Word  was  sent  to  the  Castle  and  Monas- 
tery that  the  Image  of  Jesus,  moulded  of  bright  and  beautiful  gold,  lay  on 
the  cavern  floor,  amid  the  embers  of  the  dead  fire,  enshrined  in  its  shell 
of  baked  clay. 

It  was  a  morning  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  when  the  serfs  and  men-at- 
arms,  thronging  over  the  rocks  in  front  of  the  cavern,  saw  a  gorgeous 
cavalcade  wind  slowly  up  the  mountain  side.    Around  extended  the  woods, 


300 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


touched  by  autumn ;  in  the  blue  dome  of  heaven,  a  single  mountain  peak 
arose ;  from  afar,  on  the  bank  of  a  winding  river,  gleamed  the  turrets  of 
the  Monastery,  while  the  gloomy  wall  of  the  Castle  rose  in  the  east,  over 
the  tops  of  the  brown  forest  trees. 

And  the  cavalcade  of  Monks  and  Soldiers  wound  slowly  up  the  moun- 
tain side,  with  the  peal  of  trumpet  alternating  with  the  chaunted  hymn, 
and  the  glittering  steel  armor  contrasting  with  the  flowing  robes  of  priestly 
grandeur. 

Conspicuous  among  the  band,  two  forms  were  seen — the  grave  Knight 
and  the  jocund  Abbot.  The  white  plumes  of  the  Lord  fluttered  over  his 
golden  helmet,  and  the  glittering  cross  which  the  Abbot  wore  on  his  breast, 
shone  from  the  distance  like  a  star. 

And  the  music  came  merrily  up  the  mountain  side. 

Now  winding  around  a  cliff,  now  lost  in  shadow,  the  cavalcade  drew 
near  and  nearer.  At  last  they  reached  the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  the  Monks 
in  their  white  robes  extending  to  the  right,  and  the  warriors  in  their  bur- 
nished  armor  spreading  to  the  left. 

In  the  centre  of  this  brilliant  crescent,  stood  the  Abbot  and  the  Lord, 
the  dark  mouth  of  the  cavern  yawning  before  them.  They  awaited  the 
coming  of  Michael  the  Heretic.  The  fire  was  extinguished  ;  all  was  dark 
within.  All  was  silent  as  the  moment  of  his  approach  drew  near.  Not 
an  eye  in  all  that  throng  but  longed  to  look  upon  that  beautiful  statue. 
Every  heart  beat  quicker  as  the  echo  of  footsteps  ascended  from  the  cavern. 

On  the  threshold,  just  where  the  warm  sunlight  encountered  the  mid- 
night of  the  cavern,  appeared  a  skeleton  figure  and  a  wan  and  withered 
face.  It  was  Michael,  clad  in  his  humble  garb,  and  holding  in  his  knotted 
fingers  a  lighted  pine-knot.  The  expression  of  his  face,  so  hollow  in  the 
cheeks,  and  skull-like  in  the  brow,  was  mild  and  subdued ;  with  his  eyes 
cast  sadly  to  the  sunlight,  he  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  cavern,  folding 
one  hand  upon  his  shrunken  chest. 

"It  is  done?"  exclaimed  the  Abbot.  "You  shall  be  free — you  shall 
behold  your  plighted  wife—" 

Michael  the  Heretic  serf  did  not  speak,  but  bowed  his  head  in  mute 
assent.  It  was  evident  that  the  miserable  man  was  scarce  able  to  maintain 
his  feet.  Ten  years  of  imprisonment  has  withered  him  from  strong  and  beau- 
tiful youth  into  hopeless  and  premature  old  age ;  the  thought  and  toil  of 
his  cavern  task,  has  almost  extinguished  the  last  spark  of  his  wretched"  life. 

"Come  !"  he  said  to  the  Abbot  and  the  Lord,  and,  turning  his  face  from 
the  light,  went  slowly  into  the  cavern,  torch  in  hand. 

With  hasty  steps  the  corpulent  Abbot  followed  the  ray  of  his  torch ; 
the  Knight,  lean  and  muscular,  advanced  with  measured  strides. 

"  It  will  be  a  beautiful  image,  no  doubt — "  chattered  the  Abbot,  as  he 
picked  his  way  among  the  loose  stones  ;  "  for  the  fellow,  though  a  serf, 
has  some  wit— and  it  will  be  a  mass  of  gold,  solid,  heavy,  shiny  gold, — 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


301 


'twill  be  an  honor  to  our  Chapel,  and  fourscore  masses  shall  be  said,  Sir 
Knight,  when  thou  art  dead — for  the  repose  of  thy  soul—" 

"  Rather  let  them  be  said  without  delay,  before  I  die,  that  I  may  live  a 
few  years  more — "  growled  the  pious  Lord. 

"Behold  the  Image  !"  A  hollow  voice  resounded  through  the  cavern, 
and  the  Heretic  Michael  stood  motionless,  holding  the  torch  above  his 
head.  That  light,  while  it  left  the  cavern  wrapt  in  dismal  gloom,  shone 
vividly  over  the  features  of  the  Heretic,  and  revealed  the  Image  of  the 
Redeemer. 

It  was  placed  erect  upon  a  rock.  The  form  clad  in  the  garments  of  a 
Bohemian  Peasant,  the  hand  extended,  the  brow  stamped  with  a  peculiar 
expression — all  shone  vividly  in  the  light. 

The  Abbot  and  the  Knight  could  not  stir  ;  the  Image  held  them  motion- 
less, with  a  sensation  of  involuntary  awe.  They  did  not  utter  a  word,  but 
gazed  upon  it  with  fixed  eyeballs. 

They  beheld,  not  a  figure  of  bright  and  glittering  gold,  but  an  Image  of 
the  Saviour  moulded  in  lead,  the  form  grimly  arrayed  in  the  costume  of 
serfdom,  and  the  face  stamped  with  a  look  of  unutterable  sadness.  The 
large  motionless  eyeballs,  the  lips  moving  in  a  smile  that  had  more  of 
sorrow  than  joy  for  its  meaning,  the  great  forehead  impressed  with  a  sub- 
lime despair—  all  moulded,  not  of  bright  and  beautiful  gold,  but  of  dull, 
sullen  lead,  thrilled  the  spectators  with  sensations  such  as  they  had  never 
felt  before. 

It  may  have  been  that  the  sad  hue  of  the  lead  deepened  the  impression 
which  the  Image  produced,  but  as  Michael  held  his  torch  near  and  nearer 
to  it,  the  thought  rushed  upon  the  spectators  that  they  did  not  merely 
behold  a  form  of  lifeless  metal. 

"  I  cannot  banish  the  thought — "  gasped  the  Abbot,  as  his  rubicund 
cheek  assumed  the  color  of  a  shroud — "  No  !  No!  There  is  a  soul  im- 
prisoned in  that  leaden  mass  !  A  Soul  that  watches  me  now — hears  me 
as  I  speak,  and  reads  my  soul  with  those  fixed  eyeballs — ah  !  Heretic! 
What  have  you  done  ?  By  what  infernal  sorcery  have  you  imprisoned  a^ 
living  Soul  in  that  Image  of  lead  ?" 

The  Heretic  sank  on  his  knees,  and  a  smile  broke  over  his  livid  face. 
But  as  he  sank  he  raised  the  torch  on  high,  and  by  the  varying  light, 
his  face  seemed  to  smile,  to  frown,  to  sneer  by  turns. 

The  Knight  uttered  a  fierce  oath. 

"  I  am  afraid  !"  he  cried,  leaning  upon  the  hilt  of  his  two-handed  sword 
— "There  is  a  Soul  there, — thou'rt  right,  Sir  Abbot — a  Soul  imprisoned 
in  those  fixed  eyeballs  —  " 

"What  hast  done  with  our  gold  ?"  cried  the  Abbot,  turning  fiercely  upon 
the  kneeling  wretch — "Where — "  The  words  died  on  his  chilled  lips. 
For  the  eyes  of  the  Leaden  Image  were  upon  him  ;  they  seemed  to  pierce 
his  heart;  the  sublime  despair  of  that  forehead  congealed  his  blood. 


302 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


Kneeling  on  the  cavern  floor,  every  nerve  trembling  with  the  last  throb 
of  life,  the  Heretic  lifted  his  face  toward  the  light,  and  his  voice  was  heard, 
clear  and  distinct,  through  the  silence  of  the  cavern — 

"  You  asked  of  me  an  '  Image  of  the  Saviour  triumphant  over  Death 
and  Evil,  as  he  appears  in  your  Church.'  I  could  not  mould  a  Lie  into 
Gold,  for  I  felt  that  my  hour  was  near.  So  I  moulded  him  of  Lead,  and 
moulded  him — not  as  he  appears  in  the  Bible,  the  friend  of  the  oppressed, 
the  Redeemer  of  the  Poor — but  as  He  is  in  your  Church,  a  Sullen  Spectre, 
scowling  upon  the  agony  and  anguish  of  mankind.  Behold  him,  not  pure 
and  beautiful  as  he  shines  from  the  Bible,  but  as  he  is — imprisoned  in  the 
hollow  forms,  the  blasphemous  ritual — of  your  Church—" 

The  voice  of  the  dying  wretch  became  faint  and  fainter;  the  hand  which 
grasped  the  torch,  quivered  over  his  distorted  face — quivered  for  a  moment, 
ere  it  fell  motionless  in  death. 

"Behold  him,  not  as  he- walked  the  sands  of  Palestine,  a  free,  beautiful 
Spirit,  full  of  Godlike  love  for  Man,  but  as  he  is,  chained  by  the  satanic 
body  of  your  Church — Behold — the  Imprisoned  Jesus  !" 

The  Abbot  and  the  Lord  started  back,  awed  and  terror-stricken,  from  the 
dying  blasphemer. 

"  And  yet  the  day  comes — "  he  staggered  to  his  feet  again,  and  held  the 
light  near  the  sad,  sullen  face  of  the  Image, — "  And  yet  the  day  comes,  O 
Lord,  when  thy  Spirit,  no  longer  imprisoned  by  creeds,  shall  walk  freely 
once  more  into  the  homes  and  hearts  of  Men.  Then  shall  the  Lead 
become  Gold,  and  the  Sneer  be  changed  into  a  Smile  !" 

As  he  uttered  these  incomprehensible  words,  the  torch  fell  from  his 
stiffening  fingers,  and  darkness  possessed  the  cavern,  gathering  in  its  folds 
that  sullen  Image,  which  seemed  to  bear  within  its  leaden  bosom  a 
Living  Soul. 

What  had  he  done  with  the  Gold  ?  Neither  the  Abbot  nor  the  Lord 
could  ever  give  answer  to  this  question  ;  for,  stricken  with  terror,  they 
commanded  that  the  cavern's  mouth  should  be  choked  with  a  wall  of  im- 
penetrable stone,  leaving  the  dead  body  of  the  Heretic  alone  with  the 
blasphemous  Image.  Here,  shrouded  by  darkness,  alone  in  night,  they 
remained  for  ages,  until  the  day  of  Huss,  when  this  cavern  became  the 
temple  of  four  thousand  worshippers.  But  a  wild  tradition  hinted,  in  ob- 
scure terms,  that  within  the  leaden  Image  was  concealed  a  bright  and 
beautiful  statue  of  Gold.  Was  it  ever  discovered  ?  Did  the  leaden  shell 
ever  fall  aside,  revealing  the  face  of  the  Loving  Spirit. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


303 


CHAPTER  FIFTEENTH. 

III.  THE  IMAGE. 

Once  more  we  turn  our  gaze  to  the  scene  which  occurred  in  the  days 
of  John  Huss — to  the  aged  man  who,  placing  one  hand  upon  a  shrouded 
Image,  saw  four  thousand  worshippers  prostrate  on  the  floor  of  a  spacious 
cavern. 

"  Ye  have  heard  the  history,"  he  exclaimed,  glancing  afar  over  the  mul- 
titude, who  had  listened  to  the  Legend  of  the  Statue  in  breathless  stillness 
— "  Now  behold  the  Image  !" 

He  flung  the  sackcloth  aside,  and  suddenly  descended  from  the  rock. 

Sad  and  alone,  the  leaden  Image  towered  there,  with  the  torchlight  qui- 
vering over  its  motionless  eyeballs  and  broad  forehead.  As  the  light,  agi- 
tated by  the  subterranean  air,  flitted  in  gusts  of  radiance  over  the  dusk 
countenance,  it  seeemed  at  once  to  sneer  and  smile,  to  frown  with  sullen 
anger  and  brighten  into  a  holy  joy. 

Every  face  was  raised  to  look  upon  it ;  every  tongue  was  sealed ;  but 
the  vast  crowd  moved  with  an  unceasing  undulation.  At  last,  from  a  thou- 
sand lips,  confused  murmurs  pealed  upon  the  silence  of  the  vault— 

"  It  is  no  statue,  but  a  Living  Soul.  See  !  The  eyes  brighten  and  the 
lips  move  !  The  Lead  will  become  Gold  aHast,  and  the  Sneer  be  changed 
into  a  Smile!" 

These  words  might  be  distinguished  amid  that  wildly  whispered  chorus, 
and  the  white-haired  man,  leaning  against  the  base  of  the  rock,  looked  up 
into  the  leaden  face,  while  something  like  a  radiant  hope  began  to  burn  in 
his  eyes — 

"  Lord !  Lord !  Shall  thy  pure  Soul,  no  longer  imprisoned  in  creeds, 
walk  freely  once  more  into  the  homes  and  hearts  of  men  ?  Shall  all  thy 
people  gather  around  one  altar,  sharing  the  bread  which  is  thy  body,  and 
the  water  from  the  wooden  bowl,  emblematic  of  thy  tears  ?  Or  shall  the 
day  come,  when  the  Poor  will  dare  to  claim  the  cup  filled  with  pure  wine, 
symbolical  of  thy  Blood  ?  Shall  the  Lead  indeed  become  Gold,  and  the 
Smile  chase  the  anguish  from  thy  face  ?" 

The  light  flashed  fitfully — the  Image  seemed  to  smile;  it  did  smile  upon 
the  crowd  of  Bohemian  Poor. 

But  as  their  solemn  cry  of  triumph  rose  to  the  vaulted  roof,  a  way-worn 
man  rushed  through  the  prostrate  crowd,  his  garments  torn,  his  face  co- 
vered with  roadside  dust. 

Darting  forward,  he  sprang  upon  the  rock,  and  his  face— marked  by  the 


S04  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

consciousness  -  of  a  dread  message — was  contrasted  with  the  leaden  coun- 
tenance of  the  Image. 

"  Brothers,  Sisters,  People,  I  come  from  Prague — "  he  shouted,  with 
the  faint  gestures  of  an  exhausted  man — "I  saw  John  Huss — expire — 
amid — the  flames  —  " 

He  sank  exhausted  on  the  rock,  and  a  silence,  more  eloquent  than 
groans  or  tears,  descended  upon  the  kneeling  worshippers. 

Soon  they  arose,  and  trooping  silently  around  the  altar,  shared  the  hread 
of  the  Serf  with  each  other,  and  drank  the  water  from  the  bowl,  in  me- 
mory of  their  Lord,  who  said,  many  centuries  before,  that  his  Mission  was 
to  his  Brothers  and  his  sisters,  the  Poor. 

And  all  the  while,  the  leaden  Image,  glowing  fainlly  in  the  torchlight, 
looked  upon  their  Rude  Sacrament  with  eyes  of  unutterable  sadness.  Yet 
even  in  the  sadness — so  it  seemed  as  the  light  flitted  to  and  fro  —  there 
seemed  mingled  a  mocking  sneer.  Was  it  for  the  Poor,  or  for  the  Oppress- 
or who  trod  them  into  dust  ? 

The  aged  man  lifted  up  his  voice — 

"  It  is  not  yet  time  !  '  he  cried  — "  But  at  last,  after  the  People  of  the 
Lord,  whose  tears  and  blood  have  not  ceased  to  flow  for  five  thousand 
years — at  last,  after  they  have  suffered  enough,  and  the  cup  of  their  an- 
guish is  full — the  Lead  will  become  Gold,  and  the  Sneer  be  changed  into 
a  Smile  !" 

Has  this  Legend  of  the  wild  Boheman  land  no  meaning  for  the  people 

of  all  ages  ? 

Let  us  seek  for  the  Image  %mid  scenes  and  men  of  all  ages,  that  have 
died  since  the  day  of  John  Huss,  and  ask  an  answer  to  these  earnest 
questions — 

Did  the  Lead  ever  become  Gold  ?  Did  the  Sneer  ever  change  into  a 
Smile?  Did  the  pure  beautiful  Spirit  ever  escape  from  the  leaden  form  of 
creed  and  ritual,  and  walk  freely  into  the  homes  and  hearts  of  men,  as  in 
the  days  of  Gethsemane  and  Calvary  ? 

These  questions  we  cannot  answer;  but  a  singular  tradition  prevails — 
we  cannot  prove  its  correctness  —  that  the  Leaden  Image  has  appeared  on 
various  occasions  in  the  history  of  the  world.  It  is  a  tradition,  to  be  sure, 
and  yet  there  may  be  embodied,  in  its  Wild  details,  some  rude  Truth,  or 
perchance  the  gleam  of  a  rude  Truth. 

One  day  a  white-haired  man  was  burned  to  cinders,  in  the  open  square 
of  a  Protestant  city.  Ere  he  died,  and  while  the  flames  were^slowly  de 
vouring  his  flesh,  he  never  ceased  to  cry,  "Jesus.  Saviour  of  sinners,  have 
mercy  on  me  !  Christ,  pity  me  !"  And  all  the  while,  from  a  window  of 
a  neighboring  house,  a  gaunt  man,  with  hollow  cheeks  and  sunken  eyes, 
watched  the  agonies  of  the  burning  wretch,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice,  'kThe 
Church  hath  power  to  put  down  all  heresy  by  the  sword." 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  Sffc 

Th#  watcher  was  called  John  Calvin,  and  the  wretch  whose  slow  ago- 
nies jie  watched  bore  the  name  of  Michael  Serve tus. 

And  as  the  cindered  bones  of  Servetus  crumbled  amid  the  ashes  of  the 
fire — while  Calvin  took  up  his  Evangelical  pen  and  wrote  a  Thesis  in 
defence  of  the  Deed — there  appeared  to  the  other  spectators  of  the  scene, 
a  singular  vision  of  a  Leaden  Image,  standing  very  near  the  stake,  with  a 
fathomless  scorn  upon  its  motionless  lip  and  fixed  eyeballs. 

It  seemed  like  an  Image  of  Jesus,  not  the  Jesus  of  the  Bible  —  pure, 
loving  and  serene — but  the  ferocious  creation  of  John  Calvin's  vindictive 
soul. 

So  we  might  trace  the  history  of  the  Leaden  Image  through  various 
scenes  and  ages.  There  are  persons  who  maintain,  that  such  an  Image 
never  existed,  but  that  a  Spectre,  something  like  it,  stamped  with  a  sullen 
grandeur  on  its  dusk  forehead,  has  appeared  at  certain  intervals  in  the 
history  of  the  world ;  appeared  as  a  Warning,  an  Omen,  an  Incarnate 
Scorn. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEENTH. 

IV.   THE   PARLIAMENT  OF  THE  WORLD. 

There  was  a  night,  when  a  band  of  earnest  men,  who  believed  thai 
God  might  be  adored  and  man  be  loved  without  the  medium  of  church 
or  creed,  assembled  in  the  solitudes  of  a  mountain  cavern.  They  were 
but  few  in  number,  and  yet  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  had 
sent  their  representatives  to  this  secret  Congress  of  Brotherhood,  this  ob- 
scure Parliament  of  Love. 

History,  or  that  fabric  of  falsehood,  which  is  promulgated  to  the  world 
as  history,  does  not  record  the  names  of  these  men,  who  formed  the 
little  band  ;  and  yet,  their  deliberation  went  forth  from  that  mountain 
cavern  over  all  the  world,  like  the  voice  of  a  Regenerating  Angel. 

The  fair-haired  German  was  there  ;  and  by  his  side  the  Spaniard,  with 
his  bronzed  cheek,  and  eye  of  fire.  There,  the  Italian,  full  of  the  ancient 
glory  of  his  land,  and  the  Frenchman,  with  his  story  of  Protestant  and 
Catholic  wars.  The  Swede,  the  Dane,  the  Hungarian,  and  the  Turk,— 
j  all  were  mingled  in  that  band.    Even  the  far  land  of  the  New  World  was 

20 


306  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

represented  there  in  the  person  of  a  Colonist,  fresh  from  the  witchcraft 
murders  of  New  England. 

These  men,  grouping  round  a  rock  which  started  from  the  cavern  floor, 
talked  with  each  other  in  low,  earnest  tones.  A  single  torch,  inserted  in 
the  crevice  of  the  rock,  gave  its  faint  light  to  the  scene,  and  dimly  re- 
vealed their  various  costumes,  and  the  passions  as  various,  which  flitted 
over  each  face. 

Near  that  rock,  a  solitary  figure  towered  erect,  his  face  and  form  con- 
cealed by  a  dark  robe. 

While  all  the  others  conversed  in  agitated  whispers,  he  alone  was 
silent. 

Not  a  gesture  betrayed  his  emotion,  nor  indicated  that  he  was  in  truth 
any  thing  but  a  dumb  image  of  wood  or  stone. 

There  was  but  one  in  the  little  band  who  knew  his  name. 

Wherefore  this  assemblage  in  the  mountain  cavern  of  Germany,  at 
dead  of  night,  by  the  faint  ray  of  a  solitary  torch  ? 

Wherefore  these  signs,  by  which  the  various  persons  recognised  each 
other?  and  what  meant  that  password  in  the  ancient  Hebrew  tongue, 
which  echoed  round  the  place  until  the  gloomy  arches  seemed  agitated 
into  voice  by  the  sound  ? 

It  will  be  remembered,  that  this  meeting  took  place  when  the  first  quarter 
of  the  seventeenth  century  was  near  its  close. 

The  German,  with  his  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes,  arose — 

"  Reformations  are  in  vain  for  my  fatherland.  A  new  Luther  must 
arise  and  work  out  a  broader  and  bolder  Reformation.  The  last  has  but 
substituted  one  creed  for  another — Germany  festers  with  the  unburied 
corses  of  those  who  have  been  slain  in  the  war  of  Creeds.  The  Reforma- 
tion only  agitated  the  atmosphere  in  which  Kings  and  Priests  swelter 
into  bloated  power.  It  left  the  Poor  where  it  found  them — there,  under 
the  hoofs  of  Priest  and  King,  doomed  to  dig  and  die,  whether  a  Pope  or 
a  Synod  reigns.  Earth  calls  to  God  for  a  new  Reformation,  which  shall 
overlook  the  world,  as  with  the  eye  of  God  himself,  and  behold  in  God 
but  the  common  Father  of  all  mankind;  in  nations  and  races,  however 
divided  or  styled,  but  a  common  family  of  Brothers." 

As  the  German  took  his  seat  upon  a  ledge  of  rock,  near  the  central 
rock,  a  murmur  of  deep  emphasis  filled  the  cavern. 

Then,  one  by  one,  the  members  of  the  little  band  arose,  and  spoke  the 
thought  of  their  souls  freely,  and  vyith  no  fear  upon  their  faces. 

The  Spaniard  rose — 

"hi  Spain  exists  the  Inquisition — " 

As  if  these  words  comprised  all  that  man  can  know  of  degradation,  all 
that  Priests  can  inflict,  or  Kings  contrive,  in  the  form  of  Murder,  he  said 
no  more. 

Next  the  Frenchman— 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


307 


"  St.  Bartholomew's  corses  have  not  yet  mouldered  into  dust,"  he  said, 
and  was  silent. 

After  he  had  ceased,  an  Irishman  arose.  He  had  no  word  to  utter,  or 
perchance  his  heart  was  too  full  for  words.  He  laid  upon  the  rock,  in 
the  rays  of  the  light,  some  leaves  of  withered  shamrock,  and  a  broken 
harp.    The  withered  leaves  and  the  broken  harp  were  stained  with  blood. 

Without  a  word,  the  Irishman  glided  into  the  shadows  again. 

Then  the  voice  of  the  Englishman  was  heard — 

"  Some  time  ago  there  was  a  war  in  my  native  land.  The  People,  that 
vulgar  race,  whose  life  is  comprised  in  three  words — we  are  born,  we 
suffer,  we  die  ! — The  People,  I  say,  came  up  bravely  to  that  war,  and 
spoke  with  an  ominous  murmur  to  an  anointed  King,  telling  him  in  their 
rude  way,  that  he  was  but  a  man.  That,  forgetting  his  Manhood  in  his 
Kingship,  he  had  committed  murders  enough  to  have  hurled  a  thousand 
men  to  the  scaffold.  Therefore,  said  the  People,  King  as  you  are,  with 
the  royal  blood  of  twenty  generations  in  your  veins,  with  the  anointing 
oil  of  all  the  Priests  in  the  land  upon  your  brow,  you  must  die. 

"They  put  their  King  to  death  upon  the  scaffold,  and  said  in  the  face  of 
God  and  Man — '  We  will  have  no  more  to  do  with  Kings.  They  have  had 
the  world  long  enough  for  their  Murder  ground — long  enough  have  they 
set  men  at  one  another's  throats,  and  turned  the  Image  of  God  into  an 
engine  of  carnage.'  This  was  a  brave  thing,  which  the  English  People 
said,  but  the  time  was  not  yet  come ;  they  had  not  yet  learned  the  great 
lesson  of  our  order.  First,  Union  ;  then  Freedom  ;  and  last  Brotherhood. 

"  They  could  not  yet  recognise  in  God,  but  a  loving  Father  of  all  man- 
kind, nor  in  nations  and  races,  but  a  family  of  Brothers. 

"  Therefore,  after  having  put  their  King  to  death,  and  buried  the  wor,d 
'King,'  with  his  headless  body,  they  became  the  slaves  of  Faction.  They 
quarreled  about  creeds  and  forms,  leaving  the  great  fact  of  all  Truth — 
Brotherhood  among  men — a  dumb  and  mangled  thing  beneath  their 
bloody  feet. 

"  At  this  time,  a  bold  Son  of  the  People  cast  his  eyes  about  him,  and 
saw  the  danger  of  his  brethren.  He  saw  the  word  '  King'  start  into  life 
again  from  the  headless  body  of  Charles  the  First — he  saw  the  People 
once  more  kneeling  in  their  blood,  under  the  iron  feet  of  Power. 

"  He  determined  to  save  his  race,  but,  alas  ! — pity  us,  good  Lord,  for 
we  are  weak  ! — he  could  think  of  no  better  way  of  saving  his  people 
from  the  name  of '  King,'  than  by  usurping  the  Power  without  the  Name. 

"  Therefore,  the  Lord  delivered  him  not  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies, 
but  to  the  remorse  of  his  own  soul.  Delivered  his  great  heart  to  the 
terror  of  the  Assassin's  steel — delivered  his  giant  intellect,  blinded  and 
bound,  like  the  Samson  of  old,  to  that  terror  which  fears  a  shadow,  and 
trembles  at  a  sound. 

"  At  last  he  died,  and  England,  forgetful  of  the  blood  which  had  been 


308 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR 


shed  to  achieve  her  freedom — forgetful  even  of  the  greatness  of  that 
Brewer,  who  had  made  the  name  of  Protector  nobler  than  the  name  of 
Emperor — England,  I  say,  forgetful  of  the  brave  men  who  had  died, 
by  tens  of  thousands,  to  redeem  her  from  the  name  of  King — England 
rushed  to  the  grave  of  Charles  the  First,  and  took  the  crown  from  his 
fleshless  skull,  and  put  it  on  the  head  of  Charles  the  Second,  and  hailed 
him—1  King  V 

"  Yes,  my  brothers,  Charles  the  Second  is  King  in  England  now,  and 
while  he  reigns,  there  is  a  headless  trunk  amid  the  offal  of  the  ditch,  there 
is  a  bleeding  head  nailed  up  to  scorn,  upon  the  gate  of  London.  That 
headless  trunk,  and  that  bleeding  head,  once  embodied  the  Soul  of  Oliver 
Cromwell." 

The  Englishman  could  say  no  more.  Charles  the  Second  on  the 
Throne,  and  Oliver  Cromwell's  body  cast  forth  to  feed  the  hunger  of 
dogs,  Oliver  Cromwell's  head  nailed  up  to  the  gate  of  London — it  was 
enough. 

The  Representatives  of  the  Nations  uttered  a  groan  for  fallen  England. 

Then,  one  by  one,  these  men  gathered  from  the  quarters  of  the  globe, 
— assembled  at  the  mandate  of  some  Invisible  Chief,  or  by  the  watch 
word  of  a  universal  brotherhood — arose  and  told,  in  various  ways,  in 
every  tongue,  the  same  story. 

Kings  everywhere,  Priests  everywhere,  and  everywhere  slaves. 

It  was  a  horrible  catalogue  of  enormities,  which  fell  from  the  lips  of 
these  brethren. 

Indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  the  World — its  men  and  women,  its  little 
children,  and  its  babes  unborn — had  been  given  up  by  some  ferocious 
Destiny  into  the  hands  of  Superstition  and  Murder. 

The  Turk,  the  Arab,  the  Hindoo,and  the  Swede,  all  told  the  same  story 
in  various  forms.  In  every  land  a  King,  and  for  the  People  nothing  but 
chains  and  graves. 

There  was  a  black  man  in  the  throng ;  from  his  voice  and  manner 
it  appeared  that  he  had  received  the  education  of  the  white  race. 

The  story  that  the  black  man  told,  was  of  petty  Kings,  on  the  soil  of 
Africa,  selling  the  flesh  and  blood  of  Africa  to  eternal  bondage  in  a  New 
World.  A  bondage  that  had  no  parallel  in  the  history  of  crime,  for 
under  the  name  of  Servitude,  it  comprised  Murder,  Incest,  Blasphemy. 

As  the  word  "  New  World"  fell  from  the  black  man's  lips,  a  shudder 
agitated  the  throng. 

"Slavery  in  the  New  World !"  cried  the  German — "Alas!  Alas!  then 
God  has  indeed  given  the  earth  into  the  power  of  Satan  " 

"Do  not  blaspheme,"  said  the  voice  of  an  aged  Swede — "The  New 
World  is  the  last  altar  of  Brotherhood  left  on  the  surface  of  a  desolated 
globe.  We  have  looked  to  the  East  for  light— it  will  come  from  the  East; 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  309 

but  it  is  in  the  West  that  the  light  will  reveal  to  us  the  perfect  image  of 
human  brotherhood." 

At  this  word  the  Representative  from  the  New  World  arose.  Every- 
one was  silent ;  they  all  gazed  upon  his  rugged  features  and  backwoods- 
man attire  with  an  absorbing  interest. 

"  The  New  world  is  the  last  altar  of  human  Brotherhood  !"  he  said, 
echoing  the  words  of  the  aged  Swede — "  There  was  a  band  of  friendless 
exiles,  driven  from  the  shores  of  England  by  the  lash  of  persecution. 
They  sought  a  Home  and  an  Altar  in  the  forests  of  the  New  World. 
They  landed  one  day,  on  a  Rock  which  they  called  Plymouth,  and  the 
red  men  of  the  woods  bade  the  wanderers  welcome. — Brothers,  this  was 
not  many  years  ago,  and  yet  I  stand  among  you,  an  exile  and  an  outcast 
from  the  New  World — " 

"  An  exile  and  an  outcast  from  the  New  World  I"  His  words  were 
echoed  on  every  side. 

"  He  has  committed  some  horrible  crime — "  and  the  aged  Swede 
shrunk  from  the  side  of  the  Colonist. 

"  Yes,  I  am  guilty  of  crime — a  horrible  crime.  I  could  not  believe  in 
my  neighbor's  creed.  I  could  not  think,  that  Murder  was  any  the  less 
Murder,  because  it  was  done  by  grim  Priests,  in  the  name  of  God,  and 
the  victims  were  old  men  and  defenceless  women.  Yes,  yes — I  have 
stood  upon  the  soil  of  the  New  World,  and  seen  men  given  up  to  the  cord 
and  scaffold,  because  they  could  not  believe  in  an  Orthodox  Protestant 
creed—" 

— "  Even  as  I,  a  Spaniard,  have  seen  them  racked  and  burnt  in  the  Act 
of  Faith  of  an  Inquisition !" 

"  But  I  have  sften  that  Image  which  we  love  in  a  Wife,  reverence  in  a 
Sister,  adore  in  a  Mother — I  have  seen  the  Image  of  Woman  lashed  naked 
through  the  streets,  amid  the  jeers  and  prayers  of  cadaverous  Priests, 
who  saw  the  blood  start  from  the  quivering  flesh,  and  shouted,  'Scorn  to 
the  Heretic,  Praise  to  our  God.'  This  on  the  soil  of  the  New  World — 
this  in  the  land  which  God  hath  set  apart  as  the  most  sacred  altar  of 
human  Brotherhood  !" 

Bathed  in  tears  and  blushes,  the  American  crouched  into  a  seat.  One 
groan  quivered  from  the  hearts  of  the  listeners. 

"We  all  looked  to  the  New  World  for  light,  and  lo  !  we  have  it,  but  it 
is  the  light  from  the  flame  of  persecution,  the  red  blaze  which  Bigotry 
has  stolen  from  the  fires  of  hell." 

From  the  verge  of  the  circle  which  the  brothers  formed,  as  they  clus- 
tered around  the  light,  a  tall  form  advanced.  It  was  a  man  clad  in  a 
blanket,  with  a  wampum  belt  wound  about  his  waist ;  a  man  of  aquiline 
nose  and  high  cheek-bones,  eyes  like  sparks  of  flame,  and  skin  that 
resembled  the  deep  red  of  autumnal  leaves. 

"I  am  an  Indian,"  he  said  in  a  guttural  tone— "But  the  language  of 


310  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

your  Brotherhood  has  become  my  language.  The  altar  at  which  you 
worship  is  also  mine.  I  am  an  Indian.  Twenty  winters  ago,  I  dwelt 
among  my  people,  beside  the  river  which  flows  from  the  forest  to  the  sea. 
Our  numbers  were  as  the  leaves  in  the  forest,  as  the  sands  by  the  shore. 
From  the  wood  to  the  river,  extended  our  wigwams,  thick  as  the  birds  in 
the  sky,  when  the  sun  is  low.  The  White  Man  came ;  he  was  attired  in 
black.  There  was  a  Cross  upon  his  breast.  He  taught  my  People  a 
new  Religion;  he  built  his  temple  in  our  midst.  The  Great  Spirit  whom 
we  had  seen  in  the  sky,  we  now  beheld  in  a  Cross,  and  worshipped  ht 
the  form  of  a  Silver  Cup.  And  yet  his  Religion  made  the  heart  warm 
within  us,  for  it  spoke  of  a  Great  Being,  who  had  come  from  the  sky,  so 
that  he  might  suffer  among  men,  and  die  despised  and  scorned  upon  a 
tree,  in  order  that  all  men  might  love  one  another.  It  was  a  beautiful 
Religion,  and  we  loved  it.  Our  warriors  knelt  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross — 
our  maidens  placed  that  Cross  upon  their  bosoms,  and  set  it,  bound  with 
flowers,  amid  the  folds  of  their  raven  hair- — We  loved  the  Religion,  and 
the  man  in  the  dark  robe  who  taught  us  to  love  it,  grew  white-haired 
among  us, 

"One  morning  in  summer,  as  we  were  gathered  in  the  temple  near  the 
river  shore — as  the  old  man  lifted  the  Cup  on  high,  while  our  nation  knelt 
at  his  feet — a  bullet  pierced  his  brain.  He  fell  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross. 
A  red  blaze  streamed  through  every  window — there  was  a  sound  like  an 
hundred  thunder-claps  in  the  air.  There  were  an  hundred  dead  bodies 
on  the  floor  of  the  temple. 

"  The  grass  without  the  temple  was  burdened  with  the  dead— the  river, 
near  us,  grew  red  with  blood  on  every  wave. 

"  From  the  rocks  on  the  opposite  shore,  streamed  one  incessant  sheet 
of  flame. 

"  Evening  came  at  last.    The  sun  was  setting.    I  was  the  only  living 
man,  and  I  stood  alone  amid  the  harvest  of  death." 
A  cry  of  horror  pervaded  the  cavern. 

"Who  was  it  that  did  this  deed  ?  Who  were  the  murderers — the  sa- 
vages of  other  tribes,  your  foes  among  the  red  men  ?" 

"  They  were  white  men  who  did  this  deed.  They  believed  in  the 
same  Being  whom  the  man  in.  the  dark  robe  taught  us  to  love." 

"Wherefore  this  murder  ?"  asked  the  Swede. 

These  white  men,  who  came  upon  us  as  we  knelt  in  prayer,  and  shot 
us  down,  and  stabbed  us,  as  we  rose  upon  the  river's  wave,  and  pierced 
our  skulls  as  we  crept  into  the  bushes  —  these  white  men  believed  in  the 
same  Cross  in  which  the  old  man  believed,  but — "  a  sad  smile  stole  over 
the  red  features  of  the  Indian — "  they  only  believed  in  the  Cross  as  it 
was  written  in  a  Book — while  the  old  man  believed  in  it  as  it  was  carved 
in  wood  or  sculptured  in  stone.    Therefore  they  murdered  us." 

There  was  a  pause  of  stillness,  unbroken  by  a  sound. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


311 


"Brothers,"  cried  the  Indian,  "I  come  to  you  in  the  name  of  the  Red 
Men.  We  melt  away  before  the  wlnte  race  like  snow  before  the  flame. 
They  kill  us  with  the  sword,  they  poison  us  with  fire-water,  they  sweep 
us  away  with  the  plague.    Help,  or  we  are  dead." 

The  appeal  of  the  Red  Man  touched  every  heart. 

An  Italian,  with  every  line  of  his  animated  countenance  stamped  by 
thought  and  endurance,  next  arose. 

"  Italy,"  he  exclaimed,  "  is  palsied  by  a  Nightmare,  which  crouches 
upon  her  breast,  and  slowly  drinks  the  blood  from  her  heart.  The  Night- 
mare changes  its  form  every  instant — now  it  is  a  Priest,  now  it  is  a  King ; 
now  the  Priest  and  King,  combined  in  one,  realize  the  idea  of  an  Incarnate 
Devil.    Help  for  Italy,  ere  the  last  drop  of  her  blood  is  spent !" 

Then  by  the  side  of  the  Italian  appeared  the  dark  figure  of  a  Jesuit. 
Every  eye  shuddered  to  behold  him  there — all  wondered  why  he  had  dared 
intrude  upon  this  band  of  brothers — not  a  man  but  shrunk  away  from  him, 
afraid  of  the  very  folds  of  his  dark  robe. 

"Help  for  the  Catholic  Church,"  he  exclaimed — "Help,  Brothers  of 
Love,  for  that  Church  which  once  overspread  the  earth,  and  sheltered  all 
men  under  the  wings  of  her  Divine  Unity !  She  now  lies  bleeding  in  the 
hands  of  Princes  who  call  themselves  Priests,  of  Murderers  who  call 
themselves  Pastors !" 

The  smile  that  had  agitated  every  face  when  he  commenced,  died  away 
in  a  look  of  sympathy  as  his  last  words  fell  on  their  ears.  They  extended 
their  hands;  they  encircled  him. 

"  There  is  hope  for  man,  when  the  Jesuit  invokes  the  aid  of  Brother- 
hood in  behalf  of  the  Church  !" 

And  all  the  while,  that  solitary  figure  stood  veiled, — speechless  and 
motionless— near  the  rock,  alone  amid  the  throng. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEENTH. 

THE  ROSY  CROSS. 

Only  one  in  the  secret  band  knew  his  name  and  history.  The  time 
now  came  for  that  man  to  speak. 

He  came  from  the  shadows,  and  stood  disclosed  in  the  light,  his  tall  form, 
arrayed  in  the  gray  garb  of  a  peasant,  standing  distinctly  into  view.  His 


312 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


features  were  darkened  by  exposure  to  the  wind  and  sun;  his  large  brow 
projected  over  eyes  which  shone  steadily  with  an  unchanging  lustre. 
Those  eyes  shone  into  every  heart,  and  all  the  brethren  in  the  cavern  felt 
that  a  Great  Soul  was  embodied  in  their  light. 

This  man,  in  the  coarse  peasant  garb,  leaned  one  hand — cramped  and 
knotted  by  toil — upon  the  shoulder  of  the  veiled  form.  In  a  voice  harsh 
and  abrupt,  he  began  to  speak. 

He  spoke  of  a  Secret  Order  extending  over  all  the  earth,  and  dating  its 
origin  back  to  that  dim  time,  when  history  becomes  a  fable,  and  chronolo- 
gy a  shadow.  Of  the  rites,  symbols  and  customs  of  the  Order — which 
spoke  to  the  heart  through  the  eye,  and  formed  a  universal  language,  in- 
telligible to  brothers  of  every  race  and  clime.  Of  the  most  sacred  sign  of 
the  Order,  which  was  written  on  the  pyramids  of  Egypt,  and  the  Monu- 
ments of  Mexico,  and  stamped  upon  the  dumb  stone  and  mortar  of  past 
ages,  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe — the  most  sacred  sign,  a  Cross  placed 
upon  a  globe,  and  lighted  by  the  rays  of  a  rising  sun,  and  therefore  called 
the  red  or  Rosy  Cross. 

This  Cross,  placed  upon  a  dark  globe,  with  the  dawn  breaking  over  its 
darkness,  was  the  emblem  of  the  great  purpose  of  the  Order, — the  re- 
generation of  the  millions  of  mankind,  by  three  great  ideas,  Union,  Free- 
dom, Brotherhood. 

The  Globe  was  a  symbol  of  Union ;  the  Light,  breaking  upon  it  from 
the  darkness,  an  emblem  of  Freedom.  The  Cross,  standing  above  upon 
the  globe,  and  blushing  into  radiance  in  the  fast  coming  light,  was  a  type 
of  Brotherhood. 

This  Order  was  known  among  men, — known  only  in  vague  supposition 
and  unaccredited  tradition  —  as  the  Brotherhood  of  the  Rosy  Cross. 

As  the  brother  in  the  peasant  garb  went  on,  his  harsh  voice  became 
melodious,  his  manner,  no  longer  hesitating,  grew  firm  and  bold.  He  traced 
the  history  of  the  Brotherhood  from  the  far  gone  ages,  down  to  the  present 
time.  In  language  vivid  and  eloquent,  he  pictured  the  elaborate  ceremo- 
nial, the  giant  organization,  the  fascinating  mystery,  which  characterized 
the  Order,  and  made  its  power  felt  over  all  the  world,  in  all  time,  like  the 
hand  of  a  God. 

"And  yet,  with  all  this  Power — these  symbols,  that  form  a  common  lan- 
guage for  Brothers  of  ail  nations,  these  rites,  that  elevate  with  their  beauty 
and*  bewilder  with  their  mystery — with  all  this  power,  felt  through  all 
ages,  over  all  the  world,  like  the  hand  of  a  God,  behold  the  degradation 
of  mankind.  In  vain  our  labors,  in  vain  the  labors  of  our  fathers.  In  vain 
this  tremendous  organization,  in  vain  the  universal  language,  the  rites,  the 
symbols — all  in  vain.  Man  still  bleeds  under  the  feet  of  Priest  and  King 
— the  world  is  still  given  up  to  Satan.  Even  that  holiest  name,  which  we 
have  written  upon  our  banner,  embalmed  in  our  hearts,  consecrated  with 
the  baptism  of  our  tears — even  4  Brotherhood'  has  fallen  prostrate,  afraid 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


313 


of  the  darkness  which  broods  over  the  earth,  trampled  into  dust  by  the  iron 
feet  of  Evil." 

These  words  thrilled  through  the  cavern,  and  a  breathless  stillness  fell 
upon  every  tongue.  Faces,  wet  with  tears,  that  glittered  in  the  dim  light, 
attested  the  truth,  the  power  of  the  speaker's  words. 

Still  resting  his  knotted  "hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  unknown,  the 
peasant  in  the  gray  garb  continued  : 

"But  the  contest  is  not  yet  over.  'Brotherhood'  is  clouded  by  mists 
of  blood-red  smoke,  but  it  is  Divine,  it  is  Eternal,  it  will  live  when  the 
stars  have  faded  from  the  sky.    For  it  is  of  God,  and  therefore  cannot  die. 

"But  we  must  embody  the  idea  of  'Brotherhood'  not  only  in  rites  and 
symbols,  but  in  such  a  form  that  the  meanest  of  earth's  trodden  children 
may  behold  it  and  love  it. 

"Do  you  hear  me,  my  brethren  ? 

"  This  idea  of  Brotherhood,  nay,  this  Eternal  Fact,  this  deathless  mani- 
festation of  God,  must  be  embodied  in  a  form,  that  will  speak  to  the  hearts 
of  men,  and  through  their  hearts  regenerate  the  world." 

"Do  this,"  cried  the  Swede,  "and  Kings  and  Priests  exist  no  longer." 

Every  face  was  lifted  in  earnest  hope  to  the  visage  of  the  speaker,  and 
a  murmur  filled  the  cavern,  a  murmur  swelled  by  many  tongues,  but  with 
only  one  meaning. 

"Let  the  Divine  Truth  of  Brotherhood  be  embodied  in  a  form  that  will 
speak  at  once  to  the  hearts  of  men,  and  our  work  is  done.  Man  will 
indeed  be  free ;  there  will  exist  no  longer  on  the  face  of  the  globe,  either 
a  Lord  or  a  Slave,  to  blaspheme,  by  their  existence,  the  goodness  of  our 
Father." 

"  But  how  shall  the  idea  be  embodied  ?  In  what  form  shall  we  personify 
the  holy  Truth  ?" 

"  Listen,  my  brothers,  and  I  will  tell  you.  We  will  embody  this  idea 
in  the  history  of  some  individual  life,  whose  every  word  shall  melt  the 
souls  of  men  into  tenderness  and  love.  Shall  we  take  the  life  of  some 
great  Philosopher, — some  of  those  weird  sages  of  the  ancient  time,  who 
surveyed  the  world  from  the  casement  of  their  cell,  and  reasoned  boldly 
upon  Man,  but  could  not  feel  for  him  ?  Shall  we  summon  Pythagoras, — 
or  Plato — or  even  that  bravest  and  most  manful  of  them  all — Socrates  ?  Ah, 
I  see  the  smile  steal  over  your  faces — I  hear  your  murmurs,  What  have 
Philosophers  to  do  with  the  millions  of  mankind  ?  Have  they  suffered, 
any  moment  of  their  lives,  that  stern  Martyrdom  which  is  ever  the  lot  of 
the  Poor  Man,  from  his  birth  to  his  death — the  martyrdom  of  Poverty, 
that  has  no  couch  for  its  tired  head,  but  in  the  grave;  the  martyrdom  of 
Toil,  that  is  without  a  Hope  in  this  world  or  the  next.  Have  these  Philoso- 
phers drunk  of  the  poor  man's  cup ;  have  they  wept  with  him  in  his  deso- 
late home;  have  they  measured  his  anguish,  or  sounded  the  depths  of  his 
immeasurable  Despair  ? 


314 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"Away  then  with  Philosophers.  Cold  reasoners,  shrouding  themselves 
in  the  mountain  cloud  of  sophistry ;  they  never  descend  to  the  plain,  and 
feel  with  the  millions  who  are  only  born  to  be  trampled  and  to  die. 

"  The  world  does  not  demand  abstractions.  It  calls,  even  from  the 
kennel  of  its  degradation,  it  calls  for  some  great  Heart,  to  feel  for  its 
despair,  and  win  it  tenderly  into  light  and  love  once  more. 

"  Shall  we  embody  this  Idea  of  Brotherhood  in  the  life  of  some  Priest, 
or  tell  the  world  how  lovely  it  looks,  how  wonderful  and  sublime  in  the 
life  of  some  King  ?  As  well  embody  the  Idea  of  Heaven  in  the  image  of 
a  Satyr,  or  personify  the  angel-tenderness  of  childhood  in  the  dusk  coun- 
tenance of  Satan ! 

"  No — away  with  Priests  and  Kings, — away  with  all  like  these,  who  do 
not  live  in  the  same  ivorld  with  the  millions  of  mankind. 

"  But  we  will  give  this  idea  shape,  color,  voice.  We  will  embody  the 
principle  of  Brotherhood  in  the  life  of  a  Mechanic." 

His  words  were  followed  by  a  breathless  stillness  ;  and  then  the  mur- 
mur rose—"  Where  will  you  find  a  Mechanic,  who  has  risen  from  the  hut 
of  the  poor  man  into  the  light  of  fame  1" 

"  In  the  life  of  a  worker,  toiling  with  the  workers  of  the  human  race,  a 
Son  of  the  Poor,  living  and  dying  for  the  Poor.  Listen,  my  brothers,  and 
do  not  treat  with  scorn  my  crude  Legend  of  other  days.  But  I  will  tell 
to  you  the  story  of  the  Mechanic  whom  you  seek,  the  son  of  the  Poor 
whom  you  desire. 

"  One  day, — in  the  ages  long  ago — the  Son  of  a  Carpenter  looked  out 
from  the  window  of  his  father's  workshop,  and  beheld  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  the  Poor,  trodden  down  under  the  gathered  infamies  of  four  thou- 
sand years.  His  garments  were  very  rude ;  clad  like  a  child  of  the  Peo- 
ple, he  wiped  the  laborer's  sweat  from  his  brow,  and  from  that  workshop 
window,  he  cast  his  eyes  over  a  world  in  darkness  and  in  chains.  A  fire 
that  was  of  God  suddenly  lighted  up  his  eyes ;  that  forehead,  damp  with 
the  sweat  of  toil,  became  radiant  with  a  Thought.  His  lips  unclosed,  and 
he  uttered  the  travail  of  his  soul  in  these  brief  words — '  Over  all  the  earth, 
one  sound  swells  up  to  God.  It  is  the  groan  of  the  Poor  man,  who  has 
no  joy  in  this  world,  and  no  hope  in  the  next.' 

"  Then,  as  if  a  voice  from  God  had  penetrated  his  soul,  the  Son  of  the 
Carpenter  laid  aside  the  tools  of  his  father's  craft,  and,  clad  as  he  was,  in 
the  coarse  garb  of  labor,  yet  with  a  Thought  shining  over  his  brow,  went 
forth  into  the  world,  and  said  to  the  Poor,  as  he  met  them  on  the  highway, 
or  saw  them  bending  under  the  hot  sun,  in  the  rich  man's  fields,  or  beheld 
their  wan  faces  from  the  windows  of  the  prison,  '  Brother  !  There  is  a  God 
in  heaven;  he  is  our  Father!  He  marks  the  sparrow's  fall — think  you, 
then,  that  He  looks  unheedingly  upon  the  anguish  of  his  children,  the 
Poor,  who  bear  his  image,  and  have  every  one  of  them  a  ray  of  his  Eter- 
nity in  their  hearts  V 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  315 

"  Such  words  as  these,  thrilling  from  the  lips  of  a  Carpenter's  Son, 
stirred  the  hearts  of  the  Poor.  They  followed  the  young  man  by  thou- 
sands; now  by  the  lake  shore,  now  on  the  slope  of  the  mountain  side, 
now  in  the  desert  woods,  he  talked  to  them,  as  much  with  his  radiant  fore- 
head and  calm  deep  eyes,  as  with  his  voice;  and  he  always  ended  his 
teachings  with  a  word  like  this — iGod  is  our  Father,  and  all  men  are  his 
children.'* 

"I  might  spend  the  hours  of  this  silent  night,  in  telling  you  how  this  Son 
of  the  Carpenter  dwelt  with  the  Poor — shared  the  crust  of  the  Poor — wept 
with  the  Poor— lived  for  the  Poor,  and  died  for  the  Poor.  As  for  the  Rich 
Man,  whether  he  appeared  in  the  form  of  a  Priest  or  as  a  King,  the  Son 
of  the  Carpenter  only  spoke  of  him  with  pity,  with  reproach,  with  scorn. 
His  mission  was  to  the  Poor.  And  without  arms,  without  Priests,  clad 
only  in  his  humble  garb,  he  spoke  to  the  Poor  of  his  native  land,  and  his 
voice  moved  the  earth  like  the  pulsations  of  the  Heart  of  God. 

"  He  died — at  last,  after  a  brief  mission  of  three  years — he  died  ;  I  need 
not  tell  you  how  ! 

"  What  death  is  reserved  for  those  who  endeavor  with  a  single 
heart  to  do  good  to  Man  ?  Not  the  death  of  the  pampered  Priest,  who, 
reclining  on  silken  couches — embosomed  in  the  chambers  of  a  Palace 
— looks,  with  sorrow  too  deep  for  tears,  upon  the  rich  viands  and  the  genial 
wines,  which  he  cannot  take  with  him  to  the  grave.  Not  the  death  of  the 
Conqueror,  who  makes  himself  a  couch  of  the  bodies  of  the  slain,  and 
expires  most  royally — a  tiger  clad  in  glossy  fur,  crouching  upon  his 
victims  and  tearing  them  with  his  fangs,  as  he  dies. 

"  No  !  But  the  death  of  the  Felon,  nailed  to  an  abhorred  tree,  which 
towered  alone  and  hideous,  upon  the  height  of  a  craggy  steep,  with  the 
black  sky  above  it,  and  the  dark  mass  of  countless  spectators  around  and 
beneath  it. 

"  This  was  the  death  of  the  Son  of  the  Carpenter,  who  had  said  to  Man, 
that  Religion  consisted  not  in  palaces  or  jails,  nor  in  Priests  or  Kings,  nor 
in  churches,  or  costly  ceremonial,  but — mark  the  simplicity  of  the  Carpen- 
ter's Son — in  loving  one  another. 

"  O,  that  I  could  paint  to  you  the  radiant  forehead  and  earnest  eyes  of 
this  Carpenter's  Son,  and  show  him  to  you  as  he  lived  among  men,  their 
Brother;  clad  like  themselves,  their  Friend:  for  he  said  to  them,  'God  is 
our  Father.'' 

"But  he  has  been  dead  many  centuries. — Behold  him,  not  as  he  walked 
the  sands  of  his  native  land,  but  as  he  is  !" 

He  swept  the  cloak  aside,  which  enveloped  the  limbs  of  the  unknown. 
The  cavern  echoed  with  a  cry  of  amazement  and  terror. 

For  there,  very  near  the  light,  towered  the  Leaden  Image,  whose  fore- 
head stamped  with  despair,  and  motionless  eyes  full  of  unutterable  anguish, 
and  form  clad  in  the  garments  of  toil,  seemed  to  imprison  a  Living  Soul, 


316  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

It  was  the  Image  of  the  Imprisoned  Jesus. 

"This  is  what  Priest  and  King  have  made  of  the  pure  and  beautiful 
spirit  of  the  Carpenter's  Son  !  They  have  robbed  man  of  his  Brother, 
his  friend  ;  they  have  coffined  the  soul  of  the  Mechanic  in  the  creed  and 
ritual  of  their  Church  ;  they  have  taken  to  themselves  that  Man  of  Naza- 
reth, who  never  spoke  of  Priest  or  King,  but  with  pity,  reproach,  or  scorn. 

"  Brothers  !  Be  it  our  task  to  take  this  Son  of  the  Carpenter,  to  sepa- 
rate his  loving  spirit  from  church  and  creed,  and  lift  him,  once  more,  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  millions,  not  as  the  Incarnation  of  a  Church,  or  the  Im- 
prisoned Christ  of  a  ferocious  superstition,  but  as  the  Carpenter's  Son, 
who  first  embodied  the  truth  of  Brotherhood,  and  made  it  blossom  in  the 
hearts  of  men. 

"With  these  three  words — Tlie  Carpenter 's  Son — we  can  regenerate  the 
world.  We  will  go  to  the  Poor.  We  will  ask  them — not  to  believe  in  the 
Trinity,  or  in  the  Unity  of  God,  nor  in  Catholic,  nor  in  Protestant,  nor  in  Bud- 
dhu,  nor  in  Mahommed — we  will  not  waste  time  in  comparing  speculations, 
or  analyzing  creeds.  Armed  with  this  Christ  of  the  Poor,  we  will  say  to 
the  Poor,  He  was  a  Poor  Man,  such  as  you  are.  Like  you  he  toiled.  Like 
you  he  hungered.  At  the  graves  of  Poor  Men  like  you  he  wept.  He 
lived  for  you — for  you  he  died.  Then  listen  to  his  voice,  which  utters 
all  truth,  in  simple  words — Love  one  another." 

The  Peasant,  whose  animated  features  contrasted  with  the  motionless 
lineaments  of  the  Image  by  his  side,  now  glanced  around  from  face  to  face, 
speaking  by  turns  to  every  one  of  the  brothers.  As  he  spoke,  his  voice 
became  tremulous  ;  his  sunburnt  features  were  wet  with  tears. 

"  And  can  we  not  accomplish  the  great  work  for  man  ?  Is  there  a 
.Brother  here,  who  can  say  no!  who  has  the  heart  to  say  it?  Here  we 
are,  men  of  all  nations,  colors  and  creeds.  Can  we  not  join  our  hands 
around  the  rock,  as  though  it  were  an  altar,  and  sacrifice  our  prejudices, 
our  creeds  at  the  feet  of  the  Carpenter's  Son  ? 

"Mahommedan  !  I  speak  to  you.  In  your  traditions  you  have  read  of 
Jesus  the  Prophet.    Do  you  object  to  Jesus  the  Carpenter's  Son  ? 

"Hindoo!  Your  traditions  speak  of  a  mysterious  incarnation — of  a  sub- 
lime manifestation  of  God  enshrined  in  the  flesh — can  you  refuse  to  ac- 
knowledge and  love  the  Spirit  of  God,  enshrined  in  the  form  of  a  Car- 
penter's Son  ? 

"Protestant,  it  is  your  boast  to  read  the  written  word  of  God.  Can  you 
refuse  the  Carpenter's  Son  ? 

"  Catholic — your  traditions  speak  of  Church,  of  Authority,  of  Popes 
invested  with  God-like  power,  and  men  sunk  beneath  the  degradation 
of  the  brute  creation,  and  yet,  amid  this  horrible  mass  of  error,  there  is 
here  and  there  a  word — a  true  word  of  the  Carpenter's  Son.  Are  you 
willing  to  sacrifice  Church — Authority — Pope  and  Council,  at  the  altar 
of  Brotherhood,  at  the  feet  of  the  Carpenter's  Son  ? 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


317 


"Deist!  It  is  to  you  I  appeal.  It  is  your  delight  to  cherish  the  idea 
of  one  supreme  God,  only  revealed  to  man,  by  the  forms  of  external  na- 
ture. Do  you  see  God  in  the  leaf  and  flower,  and  yet  refuse  to  behold 
him  in  the  radiant  forehead,  the  peasant  garb,  the  deathless  words  of  the 
Carpenter's  Son  ? 

"Atheist!  Yes,  there  is  one  in  this  band  who  cannot  believe  in  the  ex- 
istence of  a  God.  Let  me  have  a  word  with  you,  my  brother — let  us  talk 
with  each  other,  in  kindness.  You  are,  perchance,  so  constituted  that  the 
power  to  believe  is  not  in  your  nature*.  All  reason  and  no  faith.  And 
yet  your  heart  beats  warmly  for  the  good  of  man  ;  it  is  your  earnest  de- 
sire that  all  men  may  be  indeed  brothers.  Can  you  find  in  the  page  of 
any  history, — in  the  record  of  any  age  or  country — a  Spirit  at  once  so 
loving  and  so  actual,  so  like  a  God  and  yet  full  of  sympathy  for  man,  as 
that  of  the  Carpenter's  Son  ?  Point  me  to  the  page — produce  the  record — 
and  I  will  love  you  all  the  better !" 

His  eye  gleaming,  his  forehead  radiant,  the  impassioned  Peasant  glanced 
around,  and  paused,  as  if  to  note  the  effect  of  his  words.  There  was 
stilness, — and  then  the  air  was  full  of  sobs  and  groans. 

They  were  not  altogether  sobs  of  anguish,  groans  of  sorrow.  They 
rose  from  their  seats,  they  gathered  round  the  sunburnt  Peasant,  and  rent 
the  air  with  incoherent  cries. 

Strange  words  were  audible  amid  their  cries — 

"  It  is  the  Truth  which  our  fathers  sought  for  ages — it  is  the  great  Secret 
which  will  regenerate  the  World !  Not  the  Christ  of  Theology,  not  the 
Catholic  Christ,  nor  the  Protestant  Christ,  but  the  Jesus  of  the  Heart! 
The  Carpenter's  Son,  seperate  from  all  creeds,  and  only  known  as  the 
Incarnation  of  Brotherhood  !" 

The  Peasant  took  in  his  hand  the  veil  which  he  had  lifted  from  the 
dumb  Face  of  the  Image — his  form  was  raised  to  its  full  stature — his  eye 
burned  as  with  fire  from  Heaven. 

"Hold  !  Do  I  understand  you,  my  brethren— are  you  willing  to  bury 
your  creeds  at  the  feet  of  the  Carpenter's  Son,  and  believe  only  in  the 
Brotherhood  which  shines  from  his  face  ?  Is  it  so  ?  Then  let  us  look 
for  the  day  after  the  long  night  of  hopeless  Evil.  And  I  too  am  willing 
to  offer  up  my  creed  at  the  feet  of  the  Carpenter's  Son  ! 

"  Listen,  for  I  have  a  confession  to  make.  I  have  been  educated  to  be- 
lieve that  Christ  was  in  truth  the  very  God.  That  the  awful  Being  who 
made  the  stars,  and  dwelt  in  Eternity,  was  present — living,  throbbing — in 
the  breast  of  the  Nazarene.  Was  enshrined  in  the  Carpenter's  Son,  mad© 
manifest  in  the  flesh  of  that  humble  Son  of  the  Poor.  This  1  was  taught 
to  believe,  and  it  was  to  me  a  holy  thought,  that  Omnipotence  became  a 
suffering  child  of  Toil,  and  dwelt,  for  a  while,  very  humbly  in  the  huts  of 
the  Poor,  and  died — feeling  every  pang  of  mortal  anguish  — upon  a  Felon's 
tree.    Died  for  you — for  me — for  us  all ! 


318 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  And  yet,  my  brothers,  I  am  willing  to  sacrifice  this  belief — to  con- 
sider it  merely  a  form  of  words — only  so  that  we  may  all  meet  upon  one 
common  ground,  that  we  may  all  join  our  hands  around  one  altar,  and  all 
bind  to  our  hearts  the  Spirit  of  the  Carpenter's  Son — the  Incarnate  form 
of  Brotherhood  among  men  !" 

As  he  paused,  he  dropped  the  veil  over  the  sad  Image. 

"  Thus,"  he  cried,  "  Thus  let  us  hide  the  Imprisoned  Jesus  of  the 
Church.  The  Christ  of  the  Heart  moves  in  the  bosom  of  the  world — 
Soon  the  nations  will  know  his  spirit,  and  Kings  and  Priests  will  tremble, 
as  the  earth  quivers  at  each  throb  from  the  Heart  of  the  Carpenter's  Son." 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEENTH. 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  THE  PEASANT. 

"  Embody  the  history  of  the  Carpenter's  Son,  let  the  Spirit  of  his  life 
become  the  Soul  of  our  Organization,  and  I — a  rude  Peasant  man,  born 
of  the  humble  People — can  predict  to  you  the  Future  of  mankind  ! 
,  "  Not  fifty  years  from  this  hour,  the  voice  of  our  Brotherhood  will 
reach  the  heart  of  a  young  man,  in  the  city  of  Paris.  Even  as  he  sits 
amid  a  band  of  boon  companions,  the  cup  in  his  hand,  and  his  ruddy  Eng- 
lish face  contrasted  with  the  faces  of  the  brown  Frenchmen,  the  voice 
will  reach  him,  and  he  will  dash  the  cup  to  the  floor,  and  feel  the  im- 
pulses of  his  great  mission  stir  his  soul. 

"His  great  mission?  Yes — this  young  Englishman,  encircled  by  the  gay 
youth  of  Paris,  is  destined  by  Almighty  God  to  conquer  the  New  World, 
armed  with  an  olive  branch  instead  of  a  sword.  He  will  cross  the  Ocean,  he 
will  rear  a  People  in  the  Wilderness,  he  will  send  forth  his  voice  to  the 
oppressed  of  all  the  earth,  saying  to  them  all — •  Come  !  Here  is  a  Home 
for  the  down-trodden,  here  is  an  Altar  for  the  exile  and  the  wanderer.  We 
know  neither  Priest  nor  King,  in  our  New  Wrorld  at  home.  We  are 
Brothers — our  Father  is  God.' 

"And  the  exile  and  the  wanderer  will  come,  and,  with  this  Apostle  to 
the  New  Wrorld,  rear  the  Altar  of  Brotherhood  in  the  wilderness. 

"  Indian  !  The  Apostle  will  be  just  to  you,  and  to  your  race  !  Even 
now,  as  the  mists  which  cloud  the  Future  roll  aside,  I  behold  him  stond- 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  319 

ing  amid  the  red  men,  near  a  calm  river's  shore, — I  hear  the  words  of 
the  Covenant  which  they  make  with  each  other  ;  a  Covenant  made  with- 
out oath,  or  priest,  or  sword,  and  yet  it  will  live  when  oaths,  and  priests, 
and  swords  are  known  no  longer  upon  the  face  of  the  earth. 

"  After  the  Apostle  has  done  his  work,  he  will  pass  away.  Years  roll 
on — the  colonists,  the  emigrants,  the  exiles  of  the  New  World  begin  to 
grow  into  a  People.  That  New  World,  which  the  Almighty  has  reserved 
for  the  down-trodden  of  all  nations  and  races,  strengthens  rapidly  into  an 
Empire,  such  as  the  world  has  never  seen  before — not  of  Kings,  or  of 
Priests — but  an  Empire  of  Men. 

"  That  New  World,  which  the  Almighty  has  destined  to  be  the  young 
Heart  and  the  young  Brain  of  a  decrepit  Earth,  thinking  for  all  Peoples, 
the  bold  thoughts  of  freedom  ;  feeling  for  the  wrongs  of  all  races,  and  armed 
with  the  power  to  right  those  wrongs — the  New  World  is  assailed  by  all 
the  infamies  of  the  Old  World,  incarnate  in  the  person  of  a  King. 

"  He  would  enslave  the  young  Empire  with  those  customs  and  laws, 
which  have  drained  the  sap  and  the  blood  from  the  veins  of  the  old,  and 
turned  an  Eden  into  a  Hell. 

"  But  lo  !  The  same  God  who  sent  an  Apostle  of  Peace  to  plant  the 
Olive  Branch  of  Brotherhood  on  the  shores  of  the  New  World,  now 
sends  a  Deliverer  to  assert  the  sanctity  of  the  New  World  from  all 
Kings,  in  the  face  of  God  and  Man,  and  carve  out  a  way  for  Brotherhood 
with  his  battle-sword. 

44  Among  his  legions  I  behold  him,  armed  for  the  fight,  and  with  the 
consciousness  of  a  good  cause  flashing  from  his  eyes,  and  investing  his 
bold  forehead  with  a  sublime  resolve. 

"The  Deliverer  will  come  in  the  year  1775.  He  will  combine  in  his 
own  person,  all  those  qualities  which  the  world  has  never  yet  seen  com- 
bined in  one  man.  He  will  be  a  man  of  vigorous  passions,  fiery  blood, 
temper  as  ardent,  as  the  southern  sky.  He  will  learn  first  to  govern  his 
passions,  and  rule  his  own  soul,  and  therefore  be  fitted  for  the  govern- 
ment of  men,  and  the  sway  of  an  Empire.  Years  of  danger  and  toil  in 
the  untrodden  forests,  will  harden  him  into  iron  manhood.  He  will  serve, 
he  will  suffer,  so  that  he  may  always  feel  with  those  who  are  enslaved 
and  know  the  anguish  which  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  poor  man,  who  never 
ceases  to  suffer  and  endure. 

"  This  Deliverer  will  rise  in  the  darkest  hour  of  Despotism — he  will 
achieve  the  freedom  of  the  New  World,  and  then — 

44  But  hold  !  There  the  cloud  overcasts  the  Future  ;  I  cannot  read 
the  Future  of  his  life  after  the  hour  when  he  has  won  the  battle  for 
freedom. 

44  He  may  repeat  the  story  of  Cromwell,  who  saved  his  country  from 
Kings,  by  usurping  the  power  without  the  name. 

44  Yes,  he  may  descend  from  his  calm  grandeur,  as  the  Father  of  his 


320  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

Country,  and  mingle  in  the  herd  of  Kings,  of  Tyrants,  of  Conquerors, 
bartering  immortal  glory  for  the  bauble  of  an  hour. 
"  Then  woe  to  America,  and  woe  to  Man  ! 

"  The  New  World  will  become  the  theatre  of  battles  without  an 
object,  bloodshed  without  an  aim.  It  will  become  a  land  of  robbers,  and 
of  graves.  The  freedom,  which  the  Deliverer  might  have  achieved  in  all 
its  details,  in  the  year  1783,  will  be  postponed  until  1890.  A  terrible 
postponement,  a  fearful  delay,  only  marked  by  murder  in  various  forms — 
by  petty  Kings,  conflicting  with  each  other  under  various  names. 

"Let  it  therefore  be  our  care,  my  brethren,  to  leave  to  our  children  as 
a  holy  trust,  the  Life  of  this  Deliverer  !  Yes,  his  life  !  A  Brother  of  our 
Order  will  go  to  him,  as  he  prepares  for  battle,  and  confront  him  with  a 
Dagger  and  a  Sword.  1  This  Sword  is  consecrated  for  thy  defence,  so 
long  as  thou  art  true  to  thy  country,  and  to  man.  This  Dagger  is  conse- 
crated for  thy  Death,  the  moment  thou  art  false  !' 

"  Let  us  write  it  in  our  records,  let  us  teach  it  in  our  solemn  cere- 
monies, that  upon  the  Truth  or  .Falsehood  of  this  Deliverer,  who  will 
come  in  the  year  1775,  hangs  the  destiny  of  mankind,  for  at  least  three 
centuries. 

"  Does  he  prove  true  ?  Then  the  fire  of  Brotherhood  lighted  by  the 
Apostle,  in  the -wilds  of  America,  in  1682,  and  defended  by  the  Deliverer 
in  1775,  will  illuminate  the  world. 

"The  name  of  that  Deliverer  will  become  the  universal  icord  for 
4  Freedom.' 

"  Does  he  prove  false  to  his  great  trust?  Ah — the  picture  is  too  dark — 
it  spreads  before  me,  but  I  dare  not  contemplate  its  incredible  details  

"In  case  he  faithfully  fulfils  the  awful  trust  confided  to  his  hands,  then 
behold  the  Future  of  America,  and  of  the  World  ! 

"America,  as  I  have  said,  will  then  in  truth  become  the  young  Heart, 
and  the  young  Brain  of  a  decrepit  Earth.  The  pulsations  of  that  Heart, 
and  the  thoughts  of  that  Brain,  will  shake  the  World. 

"France,  beautiful  France — the  land  desecrated  by  religious  wars 
and  saintly  massacres, — will  be  the  first  to  feel  the  throbbings  of  that 
Heart,  and  echo  the  name  of  the  New  World  Deliverer  amid  her  songs 
of  Brotherhood. 

"  France  will  be  chosen  by  God  to  fight  the  first  battle  on  the  soil  of 
Europe  in  the  cause  of  Man. 

The  heart  sickens  and  the  eye  grows  dim,  but  to  gaze  upon  the  details 
of  that  battle,  fought  by  France  in  the  name  of  Men,  against  the  Priests 
and  Kings  of  an  enslaved  world. 

"  Even  now  I  see  it — it  is  there — -that  solitary  glimpse — it  is  a  river  of 
blood,  swelling  fast  into  an  ocean,  with  a  corse  upon  every  billow.  It  is  a 
people,  degraded  by  the  slavery  of  centuries,  suddenly  transformed  into  a 
horde  of  Demons,  who  not  only  sweep  Priest  and  King  into  the  bloody 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


321 


wave,  not  only  level  palace  and  jail,  beneath  their  crimsoned  feet — but — 
0  God!  can  it  be  !  they  blot  the  name  of  God^from  the  sky,  and  write 
upon  the  grave — 'There  is  no  Immortality.    Death  is  but  a  sleep.' 

"  At  this  period  there  will  arise  in  France  a  Prophet  of  Blood.  He  is 
there — I  behold  him  standing  amid  millions  of  slaves,  drunken  with  their 
first  breath  of  freedom.  His  throne,  a  strange  engine  of  murder,  erected 
on  a  platform,  with  an  axe  gleaming  from  its  timbers.  A  slender  man, 
with  a  haggard  complexion,  eyes  filled  with  injected  blood,  features  com- 
pressed, as  with  the  impulse  of  an  unrelenting  will,  he  stands  upon  the 
platform,  and  shouts  to  the  freed  slaves  in  a  shrill  voice,  as  the  rich,  the 
noble,  and  the  beautiful,  fall  headless  at  his  feet.  '  More  heads,'  he 
shrieks, '  more  heads  for  the  altar  of  the  Revolution  !  More  blood— more 
blood  to  wash  the  record  of  the  poor  man's  wrongs  from  the  history  of 
ages  !  The  Rich  have  had  the  world  long  enough — it  is  now  the  day  of 
the  poor.' 

"  It  will  be  a  terrible  day  for  Kings,  and  for  the  rich  men,  who  believe 
in  Kings,  when  this  Messiah  of  Carnage  comes  up  from  the  cloud  of 
Revolution  ;  a  lurid  Meteor,  shining  with  a  pale,  gloomy  grandeur  over  a 
world  of  blood  ! 

"  He  will  arise  in  France,  I  say,  he  will  arise  after  the  Deliverer  of  the 
New  World  hath  done  his  work,  and  he  will  prepare  the  way  for  the 
coming  of  a  Crowned  Avenger. 

"  And  even  he  will  feel  the  divine  beauty  of  the  Carpenter's  Son,  and 
hope  for  a  calm  time  of  Brotherhood,  after  the  tempest  of  infernal  passion 
is  over. 

"  At  last  he  will  fall  beneath  the  gory  wheels  of  Revolution, — beneath 
those  wheels,  which  were  hurled  onward  by  his  own  arm — but  in  the 
moment  of  his  fall,  he  will  foresee  the  coming  of  the  blessed  day  of  Bro- 
therhood. 

"  Nay — he  will  die  upon  that  unknown  engine  of  murder,  which  was 
his  throne,  by  the  very  axe  which  has  drunk  the  blood  of  royalty  and 
beauty— he  will  die  a  wretched  and  accursed  thing,  his  last  groan 
chorused  by  the  demon  yells  of  that  Mob,  who  were  yesterday  his 
Brethren — but  in  his  last  moment,  a  Hope  will  brighten  over  his  glassy 
eyes,  and  his  clotted  lips  will  tremble  with  the  accents  of  Prophecy — 

"'After  me  a  Crowned  Avenger  comes!  When  my  body  is  in  the 
ditch,  and  my  name  given  out  to  all  the  world  as  a  Proverb  of  loathing, 
the  Crowned  Avenger  will  start  from  the  People — he  will  build  himself  a 
palace  from  the  Thrones  of  fallen  Kings — he  will  write  his  name  upon 
the  Globe  in  characters  of  fire.    He  will  avenge  me  ! 

" 1  Without  me,  this  Crowfted  Avenger  could  never  have  appeared.  I 
have  prepared  the  way  for  him — I  go  to  darkness,  and  no  one  pities  me. 
And  he,  too,  will  be  crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  his  greatness,  he  too, 
will  prepare  the  way  for  another,  and  a  Nobler  Man. 
21 


322 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


"Thus,  my  brothers,  you  have  before  you  the  three  great  Epochs  which 
will  mark  the  history  of  Man,  within  the  next  three  hundred  years. 

"  First,  the  Epoch  of  the  Apostles,  who,  armed  with  the  Love  which  dwelt 
in  the  breast  of  the  Carpenter's  Son,  will  rear  the  altar  of  Brotherhood  on 
the  shores  of  the  New  World,  thus  promulgating-  to  all  mankind  the  Divine 
Truth,  that  the  New  World  is  not  for  Priests  nor  Kings,  nor  for  any  form 
of  superstition  or  privilege,  but  for  Man— sacred  and  set  apart  by  God 
for  the  millions  who  toil. 

"  Second,  the  Epoch  of  the  Deliverer,  who,  called  by  God,  will  take  up 
the  sword,  and  even  as  the  Carpenter's  Son  scourged  the  money-changers 
from  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem,  so  will  he  scourge  the  oppressors  of  body 
and  soul  from  that  holiest  Temple  of  Brotherhood,  the  land  of  the  New 
World. 

"In  case  the  Deliverer,  after  giving  freedom  to  the  New  World,  proves 
false  to  his  trust,  and  takes  to  himself  a  Crown  and  Throne,  then  the 
history  of  the  Future  is  beset  by  clouds  that  have  no  ray  to  lighten  their 
omnipotent  gloom. 

"  But  should  he  prove  faithful  to  his  great  trust,  and  after  accomplishing 
the  work  of  freedom,  yield  his  sword  into  the  h,ands  of  the  people,  and  be- 
come, for  the  sake  of  the  Holy  Cause,  a  Man  among  Men,  a  Brother  among 
Brothers,  then  will  follow — 

"  The  Third  Epoch.  The  Epoch  of  the  Crowned  Avenger,  whose  tre- 
mendous battles,  supernatural  glory,  and  Death  sublime  in  its  very  isola- 
tion, will  prepare  the  world  for  the  approach  of  the  Holiest  Epoch,  for  the 
Coming  of  the  Universal  Liberator. 

"The  Epoch  of  Brotherhood  among  men — the  Liberator  of  all  classes, 
nations,  and  races  of  the  great  family. 

"In  the  year  of  the  Carpenter's  Son  1848,  or  in  1884,  this  Epoch  and 
this  Liberator  will  be  announced  by  convulsions  over  all  the  world. 

"  Monarchy,  grown  drunk  with  its  habit  of  oppression  and  bloodshed,  will 
press  the  millions  who  toil,  to  the  last  extent  of  sufferance  and  endurance. 
Rich  Men  will  say,  triumphantly,  that  there  is  no  God  but  Gold,  no 
Heaven  but  in  getting  more  wealth,  no  hell  but  in  Poverty.  They  will 
regard  the  Poor — that  is,  nine-tenths  of  the  human  family,  as  old  fables  tell 
us,  the  Damned  are  regarded  by  the  Fiends  —  as  the  objects  of  alternate 
mockery  and  vengeance;  as  things  of  dumb  wood  and  stone;  as  beasts;  as 
any  thing  but  souls  born  of  God  and  redeemed  by  his  Spirit,  incarnate  in 
the  Son  of  the  Carpenter. 

"  Rich  Men  will  gather  round  the  Throne  in  England,  and  urge 
Monarchy — already  bloated  with  crime — to  new  exactions,  and  place  in  its 
grasp  incredible  improvements  in  the  kingly  art  of  murder. 

"  Rich  Men  in  Ireland  will  pour  into  the  cup  of  that  People's  woe,— 
that  cup  which  has  been  slowly  filling  for  centuries  —  the  last  dr  of 
bitterness.    The  cup  of  Ireland's  despair  will  be  full  at  last,  and  the  Rich 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  VVISSAHIKON. 


323 


He  stands  upon  the  Egyptian  pyramid,  and,  with  his  sad,  thoughtful  eyes, 
surveys  a  world  that  is  to  be  conquered  by  him.  He  girdles  one-half  the 
world  with  a  belt  of  cannon  and  musquet,  bayonet  and  sword.  Not  a 
land  in  the  Old  World  but  is  peopled  by  his  armies — already  he  stretches 
forth  his  arm  toward  the  New. 

"And  this  man, — the  Crowned  Avenger  of  the  People — with  all  his  blood- 
shed, is  a  holy  thing  in  the  eyes  of  Heaven,  compared  with  the  noblest 
King  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 

"He  comes  to  begin  for  Europe  that  work  which  the  Apostles  and  the 
Deliverer  accomplished  for  the  New  World. 

"And  after  his  work  is  done,  and  he  has  scourged  the  Kings  as  with  the 
lash  of  a  God,  and  made  them  the  humble  ministers  of  his  will,  he  will  be 
delivered  into  their  hands  ;  and,  afraid  of  the  Man,  even  when  they  have 
possession  of  his  body,  the  Kings  will  bury  the  Crowned  Peasant  in  the 
profound  solitudes  of  an  Island  that  stands  alone  in  the  centre  of  an  ocean. 

"There,  isolated  from  mankind,  and  secluded  with  his  own  heart,  the 
Avenger  will  die,  his  last  gasp  embittered  by  the  persecutions  of  petty  men, 
with  brows  of  clay  and  hearts  of  stone. 

"After  the  body  is  dead,  and  Kings  have  worked  their  will  upon  it,  the 
Soul  of  the  Avenger  will  come  back  to  France,  and  throb  with  terrible  life 
in  new  revolutions. 

"That  soul,  redeemed  from  the  stains  which  darkened  its  beauty,  will 
hover,  like  a  good  omen,  over  the  destiny  of  mankind,  and  dwell  in  the 
hearts  of  the  French  people,  as  the  thunder  dwells  in  the  clouds  of  heaven. 

"  For  that  soul  prepared  the  way  for  the  coming  of  a  Deliverer  for  Eu- 
rope, even  as  the  thunder  and  the  lightning  precede  the  glorious  calm  of 
the  summer  day. 

"And  he  will  come — yes,  the  Deliverer  of  Europe, — of  the  world,  per 
chance — he  will  come  at  last.  There  are  various  figures  written  on  the 
clouds  of  the  Future,  and  1  may  not  read  them  now. 

"There — glorious  date,  that  tells  of  a  world  enfranchised  by  the  spirit 
of  Brotherhood  embodied  in  the  Carpenter's  Son — it  tosses  before  me, 
amid  clouds  of  rainbow  beauty.  Is  it  1848 — or  is  it  1884  ? — there  is  a  mist 
before  my  eyes — I  cannot  trace  the  figures  plainly,  but 

" — The  Deliverer  of  Europe — of  the  world — will  come  at  last,  and 
come  with  the  arm  to  avenge  and  the  spirit  to  love  ! 

"Kings  will  shrink  from  their  thrones  at  his  coming;  the  slaves  of  the 
Old  World  will  start  into  a  people,  and  even  the  black  slaves  of  the  New 
will  dare  to  claim  a  portion  for  themselves  in  the  Love  of  God,  and  grasp 
for  themselves  a  share  in  the  Brotherhood  of  Man. 

"Even  the  red  man  of  the  forest,  smitten  by  the  iron  finger  of  White 
Civilization,  which  poisons  his  heart  and  withers  his  brain,  will  look  up 
and  see  the  face  of  the  Carpenter's  Son,  smiling  blessings  upon  him  even 
from  the  ruins  of  Despotism  and  Superstition. 


324 


PAUL  ARDENHELM  ;  OR, 


"'And,  when  the  day  of  that  Nobler  man,  that  Universal  Liberator, 
comes — when  nations  and  empires,  and  dynasties,  and  sects  and  creeds 
have  crumbled  into  dust  before  the  light  of  Brotherhood,  and  the  freed 
earth  shall  glow  with  gladness  under  the  eye  of  God, — then  shall  justice 
be  done  to  my  memory,  and  men  shall  no  longer  couple  my  name  with 
curses,  but  speak  of  me  as  of  one  who  sacrificed,  not  merely  life,  but 
fame,  for  the  sake  of  the  Poor.'  " 


CHAPTER  NINETEENTH. 

THE   SUPREME  CHIEF  OF  THE  ROSY  CROSS. 

"And  this — "  faltered  the  speaker,  wiping  the  moisture  from  his  brow — 
"  this  will  occur  before  the  Eighteenth  Century  is  done — yes — I  behold 
even  now  a  terrible  date,  written  in  black  characters  upon  a  lurid  cloud — 
the  date  is  1789 ! 

"  Yes,  Priests  and  Kings  will  drink  to  the  last  dregs  the  cup  which  they 
filled  for  the  lips  of  their  slaves.  They  will  have  to  combat,  not  merely 
a  horde  of  Slaves,  but  a  Mob  of  Demons. 

"  But  in  order  that  the  freedom,  so  fearfully  won  by  the  People  trans- 
formed into  Demons,  may  not  be  lost  in  endless  massacre,  a  Man  will 
arise,  who  will  place  his  foot  upon  the  necks  of  Kings,  and  mock  their 
power  to  scorn,  by  assuming  a  power,  unknown  before  in  the  annals  of 
the  human  race.  That  boundless  power  will  be  assumed  and  worn  in 
the  name  of  the  People. 

"  The  New  World  demanded  first  an  Apostle,  then  a  Deliverer.  Europe 
demands  a  crowned  peasant — an  Avenger. 

'*  Rising  from  the  common  herd,  this  man  will  become  the  Cromwell  of 
a  World,  believing  not  so  much  in  the  people  as  in  armies  ;  not  so  much 
in  God  as  in  his  own  Destiny. 

"  His  bold  forehead,  stamped  with  more  than  kingly  grandeur,  his  eyes 
lighted  by  a  soul  conscious  of  its  own  Destiny,  his  features  shadowed  into 
the  warm  bronze  of  the  south,  and  marked  by  the  outlines  of  the  oriental 
races,  appear  before  me  now,  like  the  face  of  a  Demi-God. 

"  He  traverses  Europe,  leaving  his  bloody  foot-prints  upon  every  shore. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


325 


Man  will  have  to  drink  it  from  the  hand  of  a  Demon,  who  was  once  a 
peasant,  once  a  man. 

"  Rich  Men  in  America  will  strengthen  the  chains  by  which  millions  of 
the  Black  race  are  held  in  bondage.  They  will  regard  these  millions  of 
the  Black  race  as  beasts  of  the  field,  and  herd  them  together  in  profitable 
Incest;  selling  the  fruit  of  the  mother's  womb  before  it  has  seen  the  light, 
and  holding  Property  in  Human  Flesh,  in  Human  Blood,  in  Immortal 
Souls." 

A  groan  echoed  from  the  assemblage. 

"  This  in  America  ?    This  in  the  New  World  I 

"  Yes  !  This  in  the  land  for  which  the  Deliverer  has  consecrated  his 
sword!  In  order  that  Man  may  know  the  value  of  freedom,  it  is  neces- 
sary that  he  should  first  suffer  the  pains  of  hell,  in  the  ditch  of  slavery. 
And,  of  all  the  forms  of  slavery  which  the  world  ever  saw,  or  ever  will 
see,  that  which  will  curse  the  American  Continent,  in  the  year  1848-  or 
1884^ — under  the  name  of  Black  Slavery,  stands  arrayed  before  my  vision 
as  the  most  appalling.  It  is — pardon  the  warmth  of  my  utterance,  for  over 
the  mists  of  the  future  I  see  it,  even  now,  in  its  garb  of  crimes — it  is  an 
Infernal  Trinity,  composed  of  three  Fiends,  who  are  called  Atheism,  Incest, 
Blasphemy. 

"Atheism,  but  not  the  honest  Atheism  which  denies  a  God  in  Nature, 
and  blunders  upon  a  something  called  chance ;  but  a  ferocious  Atheism, 
which  builds  altars  to  God,  worships  him  with  the  pomp  of  priest  and 
ritual,  and  at  the  same  moment  shows  that  it  does  not  believe  in  his 
existence,  does  not  fear  his  vengeance,  for  it  degrades  his  Image  into 
a  brute. 

"Incest,  for  in  order  to  make  Flesh  and  Blood  more  profitable,  it  en- 
courages *********** 

"Blasphemy,  for  it  not  only  makes  the  New  World  a  reproach  in  the 
lips  of  the  Tyrants  of  the  old  world,  but  it  turns  all  that  is  holy  in  religion 
into  a  Lie.  It  cries,  "Hail,  Lord  Jesus!"  and  with  that  cry,  treads  the 
Black  Brother  of  the  Carpenter's  Son  deeper  into  bondage. 

"  When  the  blessed  Epoch  is  very  near, — when  the  footstep  of  the  Uni- 
versal Liberator  begins  to  move  the  earth — then  the  Black  Slaves  in  Ame- 
rica, the  White  Slaves  in  Ireland — in  fact,  the  Slaves  over  all  the  world — 
will  rise  upon  their  masters,  rise  without  an  object  or  an  aim,  but  urged  to 
ferocious  action,  by  an  impulse  which  cannot  be  resisted  or  controlled. 

"  Then  will  occur  the  Jubilee  of  brute  force,  the  Saturnalia  of  Murder. 
It  will  be  a  day  of  reckoning  for  the  Rich  Man  over  all  the  world.  Fie 
will  learn  at  last,  that  it  is  better  to  give  some  light  of  education,  some 
gleam  of  immortality,  even  to  a  slave.  He  will,  I  say,  learn  that  it  is 
better  to  combat  an  educated  slave,  whose  nature  retains  some  ray  of  its 
Divine  origin,  much  better,  as  God  lives  !  than  to  combat  a  Brute  in  human 
shape,  who  knows  no  limit  in  his  vengeance,  and  sacrifices,  in  his  hellish 


326  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

fury,  not  only  the  rich  man,  but  the  beautiful  wife  who  nestles  in  his  arms, 
and  the  little  child  who  clings  to  his  knees. 

"It  will  be  a  terrible  going  out  of  Egypt — an  Exodus  of  incredible 
carnage,  which  the  Poor  will  accomplish,  ere  the  great  day  of  their  Re- 
demption. 

"  The  Israelites  of  old,  chained  in  Egypt,  went  forth  one  day,  and  the 
sea,  parting  on  either  side,  left  bare  a  safe  pathway  for  the  liberated  slaves. 
Their  pursuers  followed,  and  were  lost  in  the  waves.  The  freed  slaves 
beheld  their  livid  faces,  and  heard  their  impotent  cries  of  despair.  This 
was  indeed  a  terrible  sight  for  Egypt,  but  a  glorious  day  for  Israel. 
J  "  Remember,  however,  that  the  Israelites,  enslaved  by  the  Egyptians, 
only  symbolized  the  Poor  Man  all  over  the  world,  enslaved  by  the  Rich. 

"Therefore,  I  say,  it  will  be  a  terrible  going  out  of  Egypt  which  the 
Poor  Man  will  accomplish,  when  all  at  once  he  escapes  from  thraldom, 
through  a  Red  Sea.  That  Red  Sea  nothing  but  the  blood  which  flows 
from  the  veins  of  the  tyrants  of  the  Poor. 

"It  will,  I  repeat,  be  an  Exodus  of  incredible  carnage,  which  the  Angels 
will  behold  on  that  day,  when  the  Poor  Man  shall  hear  the  voice  of  God, 
calling  upon  him  in  his  bondage — 'Arise!  The  hour  hath  come.  The 
cup  is  full.  Arise,  ye  millions  of  the  human  race, — Arise,  ye  races  and 
tribes  of  the  Poor !  Go  out  from  this  bondage,  though  the  way  of  your 
redemption  is  paved  with  the  bodies  of  the  Rich,  though  their  blood  rolls 
before  you  like  a  sea.  Go  out  from  bondage  !  For  it  is  the  Exodus  of 
the  Poor,  for  which  ye  have  waited  and  endured,  and  wept  your  bloody 
tears  so  long  V 

"  And  the  same  God  who  gave  a  Moses  to  the  chained  Israelites,  will 
call  forth,  from  the  shadows  of  Poverty  in  the  year  1848,  or  1884 — the 
Liberator  of  a  World." 

The  man  with  sunburnt  features  and  knotted  hands,  stood  alone,  near 
the  veiled  figure,  the  centre  of  a  group,  agitated  by  emotion  too  deep  for 
words. 

They  looked  upon  him,  as  he  arose  in  their  midst,  clad  like  an  humble 
peasant,  and  felt  that  he  was  a  Prophet — despite  his  toil-hardened  hands 
and  coarse  attire — a  Prophet  called  from  the  ranks  of  the  Poor,  to  foretell 
the  future  of  a  World  in  chains. 

Overwhelmed  by  the  intensity  of  his  thoughts,  the  Peasant  rested  both 
hands  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  veiled  figure,  while  his  chest  shook  as 
with  intense  physical  torture,  and  the  cold  damps  stood  in  beads  upon 
his  brow.  His  eyes  grew  brighter  every  moment,  while  the  brown  hue 
of  his  bold  countenance  was  marked  by  a  death-like  pallor. 

"At  last,"  he  murmured  amid  the  writhings  of  his  inexplicable  agony, 
"  At  last,  Blessed  Lord,  the  Lead  will  become  Gold,  and  the  Sneer  be 
changed  into  a  Smile." 

It  was  a  long  time,  ere  the  sensation  created  by  the  words  of  this  rude 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


327 


Prophet,  permitted  the  members  of  this  secret  Brotherhood  to  give  utter- 
ance to  their  thoughts  in  speech. 
The  aged  Swede  arose. 

His  white  hairs  waved  in  the  wind,  which  came  in  fitful  gusts  from  the 
mouth  of  the  cavern,  and  the  faint  light  imparted  its  gloomy  radiance  to 
his  withered  features. 

In  a  tremulous  voice,  he  spoke  of  the  great  object  which  had  called  the 
Chiefs  of  the  Rosy  Cross  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe. 

They  had  been  called,  not  so  much  by  the  command  of  a  Supreme 
Chief,  as  by  the  voice  of  a  tradition,  which  had  been  treasured  in  the 
innumerable  branches,  or  Circles  of  the  great  Brotherhood,  since  the 
earlier  years  of  the  Tenth  Century. 

That  tradition  pointed  out  a  particular  year  in  the  seventeenth  Century, 
which  would  witness  a  new  Era  in  the  history  of  the  Order. 

On  the  appointed  year,  at  a  certain  hour  of  a  certain  day,  the  Chiefs  of 
the  Brotherhood,  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  were  to  assemble — so  the 
tradition  enjoined — in  the  cavern  of  a  German  mountain,  long  known  in 
the  history  of  the  Order. 

They  were  to  choose  by  lot  a  Supreme  Chief,  who  would  be  known  all 
over  the  world,  to  all  the  Brothers  of  the  Rosy  Cross,  and  to  all  secret 
orders,  beneath  the  Brotherhood,  by  a  certain  symbol,  engraven  on  a 
golden  medal. 

That  Symbol  was  a  Globe,  a  Rising  Sun  and  a  Cross,  encircled  by  the 
Hebrew  words,  in  the  Hebrew  character — 

Vayomer  eloheim  yehee  aur  vayehee  aur. 

"  These  words,"  continued  the  aged  Swede,  "  indicate  the  light  which, 
shining  from  the  councils  of  our  Brotherhood,  shall  illuminate  all  the 
world.  A  light  spoken  into  existence  by  the  voice  of  God,  which  shall 
do  the  work  of  God  in  every  human  heart.  Brothers,  to  me,  as  the  oldest 
of  the  Chiefs,  has  this  Medal  been  entrusted.  It  was  given  into  my  hands, 
by  a  Chief  who  had  reached  the  venerable  age  of  one  hundred  years.  I 
now  surrender  it  into  your  hands  —  I  place  it  upon  this  rock,  which  forms 
the  altar  of  our  worship.  Let  no  one  touch  it,  nor  gaze  upon  it,  until  the 
Supreme  Chief  of  the  Brotherhood  is  elected." 

He  placed  the  Medal  on  the  altar,  where  it  glimmered  with  a  pale 
golden  light. 

An  inexplicable  sensation  pervaded  the  assemblage,  as  every  eye  was 
centred  upon  this  most  sacred  symbol  of  the  Order.  It  was  endeared  to 
their  hearts  by  a  thousand  ceremonies;  it  was  linked  with  the  overwhelm- 
ing associations  of  the  ancient  renown  and  almost  Godlike  power  of  the 
Brotherhood,  in  the  days  of  old. 

The  Hebrew  words  rudely  graved  upon  it,  gave  some  color  to  the  tra- 
dition which  taught  that  it  had  been  coined  by  the  hand  of  the  High  Priest 
Aaron,  in  the  days  of  the  Wilderness. 


328  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

True,  the  globe  and  the  cross  seemed  to  indicate  a  much  more  recent 
origin.  Yet  the  globe  was  known  as  an  emblem  in  the  secret  Brother- 
hood, long  before  it  was  discovered  that  the  earth  itself  was  a  globe.  The 
Cross  is  found  in  the  pyramids  of  Egypt,  erected  thousands  of  years  before 
the  era  of  the  Carpenter's  Son. 

In  a  word,  this  medal,  glimmering  dimly  upon  the  surface  of  the  rock, 
overwhelmed  the  Brothers  with  the  memories  of  three  thousand  years. 

Now  commenced  the  ceremonial  of  election. 

Every  chief  wrote  his  name  upon  a  tablet.  Their  tablets  were  given 
into  the  hands  of  the  Swede,  who  placed  them  in  a  hollow  of  the  rock, 
which  supplied  the  place  of  an  Urn. 

"  One  by  one,  you  will  advance,  my  Brothers,  and.  draw  a  single  tablet 
from  this  hollow  in  the  rock.  It  is  asserted  by  the  traditions  of  our  order, 
that  the  great  work  of  Supreme  Chief  will  fall  upon  the  Brother 
who  draws  the  tablet  on  which  the  sign  of  the  Cross  is  traced.  Advance, 
my  Brothers — but  hold — let  me  first  ask  every  Brother  to  raise  his  clasped 
hands  above  his  head,  and  swear  by  the  Globe,  by  the  Rising  Sun  and  the 
Cross,  to  be  faithful  to  the  Supreme  Chief,  whom  we  are  about  to  elect 
from  our  midst — to  obey  his  commands  without  hesitation,  scruple  or 
reserve,  and  to  recognise  his  Power,  whenever  it  is  attested  by  the  most 
sacred  symbol  of  our  Order!" 

There  was  a  pause — and  then  from  every  lip  arose  the  solemn  chorus  ; 
"  We  swear  by  the  Globe,  by  the  Rising  Sun,  and  by  the  Cross !" 
Perchance  the  outward  history  of  the  world,  that  history  which  only 
pictures  the  appearances,  not  the  realities  of  things,  never  described  a 
scene  of  sterner  grandeur,  ihan  that  which  was  now  in  progress  within 
the  walls  of  the  mountain  cavern. 

The  Representatives  of  the  various  Destinies  of  Nations,  were  met  in 
awful  Council,  to  decide  the  Destiny  of  all  mankind,  to  elect,  in  fact,  one 
man,  who  should  in  his  turn  embody  the  destiny  of  a  World. 

One  by  one  they  came  toward  the  hollow  in  the  rock.  The  torchlight 
shone  upon  their  various  costumes,  and  displayed  the  workings  of  those 
contrasted  faces,  every  one  the  representative  of  a  People,  the  type  of  a 
race.  The  blanket  of  the  Indian,  adorned  with  the  many-colored  wam- 
pum-belt, contrasted  with  the  turban  and  flowing  robes  of  the  Moslem. 
The  tawny  Hindoo,  the  bronzed  Spaniard,  the  florid  German,  mingled 
together  in  that  throng;  and  the  hardy  Colonist  from  New  England  stood 
side  by  side  with  the  stern  soldier  of  Cromwell,  and  the  down-trodden  Son 
of  Ireland. 

The  Jesuit,  too,  folding  his  hands  over  his  black  robe,  with  a  deep 
thought  upon  his  tonsured  brow,  stood  near  the  worshipper  of  Con-fav-tse 
from  the  far  land  of  China 

The  Black  Man  was  not  alone.  His  jet-black  features,  scarred  with 
the  traces  of  that  incredible  thraldom  from  which  he  was  a  fugitive,  he 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


329 


joined  hands  with  the  agile  Son  of  Italy,  whose  sculptured  lineaments 
spoke  of  the  races  of  Ancient  Rome. 

The  gray-garbed  Peasant  stood  alone,  leaning  upon  the  veiled  figure 
with  his  knotted  hands.  Few  could  guess  his  country  or  his  race.  His 
bold  features,  darkened  by  the  sun,  spoke  somewhat  of  an  Oriental  race. 
The  rumor  ran  from  lip  to  lip,  that  he  was  from  an  island  in  the 
Mediterranean. 

His  thoughts  were  absorbed  by  the  overwhelming  solemnity  of  the 
moment. 

They  were  about  to  elect  a  Man,  who  would  control  for  good  or  evil, — 
for  good  or  evil  in  the  present  age,  and  through  all  future  time — the  im- 
mense organization  of  the  Brotherhood. 

On  whom  would  the  great  work  fall  ? 

The  Turk,  the  Hindoo,  the  Arab — the  eyes  of  the  Peasant  roved  along 
the  throng — or  perchance — the  Black  Man?  By  the  chance  or  fatality 
of  that  mysterious  lottery,  the  destiny  of  the  Order  and  the  World  might 
be  embodied  in  a  Negro  ; — a  Negro  !  One  of  that  thrice  degraded  race, 
who  have  been  ever  doomed  to  drain  the  bitterest  dregs  of  slavery,  and 
wear  its  heaviest  chain  upon  their  lacerated  souls. 

Meanwhile  the  aged  Swede  bat  apart,  his  white  beard  floating  over 
his  breast.  His  days  were  numbered ;  he  was  not  a  Candidate  for  the 
great  office  ;  and  more  than  this,  he  had  been  the  last  keeper  of  the  Sacred 
Symbol  of  Brotherhood.    He  was  therefore  not  a  Candidate,  but  a  Judge. 

While  the  Peasant  stood  leaning  against  the  veiled  figure,  the  other 
brethren  advanced  one  by  one  to  the  hollow  in  the  rock,  and  turning  their 
faces  away,  drew  forth  a  single  tablet  from  the  darkness. 

The  Peasant  was  aroused  from  his  reverie  by  the  voice  of  the  Swede — 

*»  Brother,  it  is  now  your  turn,"  he  said. 

The  Peasant  looked  around  with  a  stare  of  vague  amazement. 
"  Have  all  drawn  but  me  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  he  beheld  the  brethren  standing  against  the  walls  of 
the  cavern,  with  their  tablets  in  their  hands. 

"  Is  not  the  tablet  with  the  Cross  yet  drawn  V  he  ejaculated,  while  a 
tremor  seized  his  limbs — "  and  have  all  the  Brothers  advanced  to  the  rock 
—  all  but  me  ?" 

"No,"  answered  the  Swede — "There  are  three  others  besides  you- — " 
The  Peasant  followed  the  extended  hand  of  the  Swede,  and  beheld 

standing  near  him,  the  Indian,  the  Colonist  from  New  England,  and  the 

Biack  Man. 

"On  one  of  the  four  will  fall  the  office  of  Supreme  Chief!"  exclaimed 
the  Swede. 

Then  it  was  that  a  wild  suspense  seized  every  breast,  and  all  eyes 
were  turned  upon  the  four.  The  Indian  and  the  Black  Man  stood  on 
the  right  of  the  veiled  figure — the  New  England  Colonist  on  his  left. 


330  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

The  Peasant,  leaning  upon  the  leaden  image,  trembled  from  head  to  foot, 
and  veiled  his  face. 

**  Advance,  Brother  from  the  New  World,"  he  cried  in  a  husky  voice 
— "  The  tablet  marked  with  the  Cross  is  yours  !" 

The  Colonist  advanced  with  a  firm  step,  but  his  hand  trembled,  his 
face  changed  color,  as  he  drew  a  single  tablet  from  the  hollow  in  the  rock. 
He  dared  not  look  upon  it,  but  stood  gazing  with  a  vacant  glance  in  the 
face  of  the  Swede. 

"  Is  it  the  tablet  marked  with  the  Cross  ?"  interrogated  the  Peasant,  as 
he  raised  his  face — his  voice,  changed  and  hollow,  resembled  a  prolonged 
groan. 

The  interest  of  the  Chiefs  became  intense  and  painful. 

"  The  tablet !  The  tablet !"  was  heard  in  murmurs — and  in  various 
tongues  on  every  side. 

The  Colonist  at  last  gathered  courage  ;  he  gazed  upon  the  tablet — 

"  My  own  name  !"  he  said,  and  turned  away. 

The  stillness  which  succeeded,  was  like  the  grave. 

The  contest  was  now  between  the  Peasant,  the  Indian,  and  the  Black 
Man.  The  Indian  next  advanced.  Stern  and  proudly  erect,  he  wound 
his  blanket  over  his  broad  chest,  and  his  aquiline  profile  was  described  in 
bold  shadow  on  the  wall  of  the  cavern,  as  he  drew  near  the  hollow  in 
the  rock. 

Extending  his  hand  without  a  tremor,  he  also  drew  forth  a  solitary 
tablet,  and  held  it  toward  the  light. 

You  could  not  hear  the  faintest  echo  of  a  sound.  All  was  terribly 
still. 

"  The  name  of  my  Hindoo  Brother,"  said  the  Indian,  as  he  resumed 
his  place. 

The  office  of  Supreme  Chief  now  lay  between  the  Peasant  and  the 
Black  Man. 

As  for  the  Peasant,  seized  by  an  uncontrollable  emotion,  he  bowed  his 
tall  form  once  more  against  the  Leaden  Image,  and  concealed  his  face 
from  the  light. 

The  Black  Man  advanced  a  step — hesitated — and  returned  to  his  place. 

"Brother,  it  is  your  time,"  and  as  he  spoke,  he  turned  his  harsh  features 
toward  the  Peasant. 

There  was  no  reply.  The  Peasant,  who  but  a  moment  ago  had  seemed 
a  Prophet,  inspired  for  a  great  work,  now  rested  his  arms  upon  the  Leaden 
Image,  and  hid  his  face,  while  his  strong  frame  shook  with  agony. 

"Advance,  brother,"  exclaimed  the  Swede  to  the  Negro — "The  office 
of  Supreme  Chief  is  within  your  grasp !" 

The  Peasant  heard  the  words  of  the  Swede,  and  a  cold  shudder  per- 
vaded his  limbs.  So  near,  so  very  near  that  Power,  which  held  in  its  hand 
the  Destiny  of  the  human  race,  and  yet  it  was  about  to  glide  from  his 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


331 


touch.  He  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  Black  Man — he  knew  by  the  dead 
stillness  that  the  Negro  was  standing  near  the  hollow  in  the  rock — he  felt 
as  he  heard  the  universal  ejaculation,  that  the  Negro  had  become  the  Su- 
preme Chief  of  the  Order. 

Yet  hark !    The  voice  of  the  Black  Man  is  heard — 

"  I  have  drawn  a  tablet,  on  which  my  Red  Brother's  name  is  written," 
he  said,  and  all  was  still  again. 

The  heart  of  the  Peasant  bounded  within  his  breast.  Possessed  in  every 
nerve  by  an  intense  ambition,  he  had  writhed  with  all  the  agony  of  sus- 
pense, and  now  his  blood  became  fire,  with  the  pulsations  of  a  boundless 

The  Tablet  on  which  the  Cross  was  traced  was  his  own — with  his  form 
bowed  and  his  face  concealed,  he  awaited  the  salutations  of  his  brethren. 
But  suddenly  his  blood  grew  cold  again,  as  the  voice  of  the  Swede  fell  on 
his  ear  : 

"  rrother,  advance.  You  are  the  last.  Two  tablets  alone  remain  in 
the  hollow  of  the  rock.  On  one  your  name  is  written,  for  it  has  not  been 
drawn  by  any  of  the  brethren.  On  the  other  the  Cross  is  traced.  Incase 
you  do  not  draw  t)i£  Tablet  with  the  Cross,  a  new  election  %vill  be  held" 

The  Peasant  heard  the  last  words,  and  raised  his  head.  Every  eye  re- 
marked the  pallor  of  his  face. 

"Two  tablets  !"  he  echoed,  with  a  vacant  stare — "I  had  forgotten — " 
he  paused,  and  turning  his  eyes  upon  the  throng,  exclaimed — "I  am  not 
worthy  of  this  awful  trust.  I  will  not  place  my  hand  in  the  hollow  of  the 
rock.  Let  the  tablets  be  cast  into  that  hollow  once  more,  and  the  great 
office  will  doubtless  fall  to  the  lot  of  some  more  worthy  brother." 

But  they  silenced  him  with  their  murmurs — every  one,  from  the  Swede 
to  the  Black  Man,  bade  him  advance. 

It  was  a  terrible  moment  for  that  rude  Peasant,  with  the  gray  garb  and 
sunburnt  face,  when,  crossing  the  cavern  floor,  shading  his  agitated  features 
from  the  light,  he  placed  his  knotted  hand  in  the  hollow  of  the  rock.  He 
felt  the  two  tablets  beneath  his  fingers.  He  knew  not  which  to  take.  One 
moment  he  desired  the  great  office  with  all  his  soul,. the  next,  he  felt  un- 
worthy, and  hoped  that  he  might  draw  the  tablet  inscribed  with  his  own 
name. 

"  It  is  an  awful  Power  to  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  one  man,"  he  mut- 
tered, as  he  raised  his  hand,  and  without  daring  to  gaze  upon  the  tablet, 
held  it  behind  his  back  toward  the  light. 

The  Swede  arose. 

"You  suffer,  my  brother,"  he  whispered — "your  face  is  like  the  face 
of  a  dead  man — I  will  read  the  tablet  for  you." 

The  Peasant  could  not  speak  a  word,  but  he  listened  to  the  footsteps  of 
the  Swede.   There  was  a  moment's  pause — he  could  feel  the  intense  in- 


f 


?S2  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

terest  of  the  Brotherhood,  as  he  heard  the  sound  of  their  deep-drawn 

breath. 

"  Brothers,  behold  !"  —  it  was  the  voice  of  the  Swede,  and  the  Peasant, 
with  his  face  turned  from  the  light,  heard  the  cry  which  filled  the  cavern. 
That  cry  echoed  from  the  very  hearts  of  the  assembled  brethren,  as  every 
eye  beheld  the  tablet  which  the  old  man  held  toward  the  light. 

And  yet  the  Peasant  dared  not  turn  and  know  his  destiny.  That  mur- 
mur was  so  confused,  so  vague,  he  could  not  divine  its  true  meaning,  but 
he  felt  the  hand  of  the  Swede  upon  his  own,  and  felt  himself  urged  gently 
to  the  light. 

"  Brothers  !  salute  the  Supreme  Chief  of  our  Brotherhood  !"  the  voice 
of  the  Swede  swelled  through  the  cavern. 

For  a  moment  the  Peasant  tottered  to  and  fro,  while  his  sight  grew  dim, 
and  the  figure?  of  the  brethren  flitted  before  him  like  the  confused  shapes 
of  a  dream.  But  that  moment  oven,  his  sight  grew  clear,  his  limbs  were 
firm— glancing  around  with  unwavering  eyes,  he  beheld  himself  encircled 
by  the  Chiefs  of  the  Brotherhood,  he  felt  the  Golden  Medal  in  his  hand. 

"  Now — "  he  said,  while  a  deep  rapture  softened  his  bold  features,  and 
his  form,  clad  in  humble  peasant  attire,  towered  in  the  centre  of  that  throng 
— "  Now,  indeed,  my  work  is  before  me.  It  is  for  me  to  embody  in  the 
ritual  of  our  Brotherhood,  the  life  of  the  Carpenter's  Son  !" 

Joining  hands,  they  encircled  him,  and  pronounced  with  one  accord,  in 
the  unknown  tongue,  the  ancient  formula  of  the  Order.  The  Swede  laid 
his  withered  hand  upon  his  brown  hairs  and  blessed  him — Hindoo,  Turk, 
Jesuit,  Indian,  Englishman  and  Spaniard,  Dane  and  German,  gathered 
around,  a  rampart  of  living  hearts. 

The  Negro,  as  the  most  degraded  and  down-trodden  of  all  earth's  child- 
ren, pronounced  the  last  word  of  the  consecration — 

"  It  is  from  a  Child  of  Toil  that  the  Children  of  Toil  must  look  for  their 
redemption." 

The  Supreme  Chief  of  the  Brotherhood  raised  the  Golden  Medal  toward 
the  light,  and  examined  its  details  with  a  careful  scrutiny. 

"On  one  side  the  Globe,  the  Cross  and  the  Rising  Sun,  with  the  inscrip- 
tion, '  Vayomer  Eloheim  yehee  aur,  vayehee  aur' — 1  Then  spoke  God,  Let 
there  be  light,  and  there  was  light.'  The  reverse  of  the  Medal  is  blank. 
It  bears  no  inscription.  One  day  it  will  have  an  inscription,  a  glorious  in. 
scription,  but  not  until  earth  is  redeemed  and  all  men  are  Brothers  ! 

"  Yes,  long  ages  after  we  are  dead,  my  brethren,  some  Chief  of  our 
Order  will  write  upon  the  blank  side  of  the  Medal — 

¥*"»  Earth  redeemedby  the  Spirit  of  the  Carpenter's  Son,  embodied  in  the 
Brotherhood  of  the  Rosy  Cross.'  " 

The  speaker  took  a  sharp-pointed  dagger  from  his  breast,  and  resting 
the  medal  upon  the  rock,  traced  in  rude  characters,  two  dates,  beneath  the 
symbol  of  the  Order.    These  dates  were  "  1777"  and  »  1848-84." 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKCN. 


333 


Then  turning  to  the  silent  brotherhood,  he  exclaimed — 
In  the  year  1777,  another  general  convocation  of  the  Chiefs  of  the 
Brotherhood  will  be  held  in  the  land  of  the  New  World.  Then  the  Golden 
Medal  will  again  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  Supreme  Chief,  elected  in 
accordance  with  the  injunction  of  the  most  aged  Chief.  Until  that  time, — 
in  case  I  die  before  it  arrives — the  office  of  Supreme  Chief  will  remain 
vacant.  And  in  the  year  1848 — or  84,  a  general  convocation  will  be  held, 
at  a  point  to  be  designated  by  the  Supreme  Chief  elected  in  the  year  1777." 

Glancing  into  the  faces  of  the  encircling  Chiefs,  the  Peasant,  now  become 
the  Supreme  Power  of  the  Order,  beckoned  with  his  hand  to  seven  brethren, 
who  separated  themselves  from  the  throng,  and  took  their  places  at  his 
side. 

"These  are  the  Supreme  Elders  of  the  Brotherhood,  appointed  by  me 
to  assist  in  the  government  of  the  Order,  and  to  receive  the  sacred  symbol 
in  case  of  my  death.  They  are  known  in  our  traditions  as  the  Seven. — 
Brother,"  he  continued,  turning  to  the  first  of  the  Seven — "Your  name 
and  country  f ' 

The  First  of  the  Seven  was  a  man  of  commanding  presence,  with  a  face 
traced  with  the  indications  of  a  serene  soul. 

"  I  was  born  in  England,"  he  said,  "but  now  that  my  native  land  is  a 
home  no  longer  for  freemen,  I  have  no  country.  I  am  about  to  depart  to 
the  New  World.  Not  to  New  England,  for  it  is  accursed  by  the  Demon 
of  Persecution,  but  to  a  more  southern  clime.  My  name  is  Lawrence 
Washington." 

The  Peasant  wrote  that  name  upon  the  Tablet  marked  with  the  Cross. 
— "  Washington  !"  he  murmured,  as  though  he  had  heard  of  it  before. 

The  Supreme  Chief  turned  to  the  Second  of  the  Seven.  A.  man  of 
slender  frame,  sharp  features,  stamped  with  an  iron  resolution,  and  eyes 
full  of  enthusiasm. 

"  Your  country,  Brother,  and  your  name  V 

"  1  am  of  France,"  responded  a  shrill,  discordant  voice—"  My  name  is 
Robenspierre." 

The  Supreme  Chief  shuddered  as  he  wrote  that  name  underneath  the 
first. 

"I  have  seen  it,"  he  murmured,  in  a  tone  inaudible  to  the  Brethren — 
"I  have  seen  it  in  my  dreams,  written  in  red  characters,  upon  the  timbers 
of  that  unknown  engine  of  Murder." 

To  the  Third  he  turned.  The  harsh  features  of  the  Black  Man  met 
his  gaze. 

"  I  have  no  name,"  cried  the  Negro — "  I  am  called  Isaac  the  Slave." 

After  he  had  written  the  designation  of  the  African  beneath  the  other 
names,  he  turned  to  the  Fourth.  The  Indian,  standing  alone,  with  his 
blanket  falling  over  his  broad  chest. 

"My  country?    Wherever  the  White  Race  leaves  our  people  a  wig- 


334  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

warn  or  a  Iiunting-ground.  Write,  Supreme  Chief,  that  my  name  is 
Talondoga,  and  my  country  the  Land  of  the  Setting  Sun." 

"Thy  children,"  murmured  the  Peasant,  "shall  yet  sweep  the  white 
race  with  fire  and  sword." 

The  Fifth  answered  proudly — "I  am  a  German.  A  tiller  of  the  soil. 
Write  John,  the  Serf ;  and  as  for  country,  say  that  I  have  no  Fatherland 
but  the  grave." 

It  was  now  the  turn  of  the  Sixth.  A  dark-visaged  Hindoo,  clad  in  the 
garb  of  the  lowest  order  of  Hindoo  priesthood. 

"  Buldarh  of  the  far  Eastern  land — a  Pariah,  who  has  no  lower  caste 
beneath  him." 

"  Thy  country  shall  be  given  up  awhile  to  Moloch,  incarnate  in  the 
English  Monarchy.  But  when  the  oppressor  has  trampled  you  for  a 
hundred  years,  you  will  learn  his  cunning,  and  crush  him  with  his  own 
weapons." 

Thus  speaking,  this  Peasant  Ruler  wrote  the  name  of  the  Pariah  beneath 
that  of  the  German  Serf. 

The  Seventh:  an  Italian,  whose  face  seemed  oppressed  with  the  Doom 
of  his  country. 

"Giovanni  Ferreti!"  murmured  the  Supreme  Chief,  as  he  wrote  this 
name  beneath  the  others.  "Fear  not,  Italian  !  Humble  artizan  as  you 
are,  it  is  from  your  race  that  there  will  spring  a  high-souled  Man,  who 
will  strike  astonishment  into  the  hearts  of  all  men,  for  he  will  embody  in 
his  own  person,  the  functions  of  Pope  and  Liberator  !" 

"There  are  the  names  of  your  Elders — of  the  Seven,"  exclaimed  the 
Supreme,  after  a  pause — "  Let  us  behold  them,  and  write  them  on  our 
hearts — " 

And  he  held  the  tablet  before  the  eyes  of  the  Brethren.  These  names 
were  written  underneath  the  Cross. 

1.  Lawrence  Washington. 

2.  Robenspierre. 

3.  Isaac  the  Slave. 

4.  Talondoga  the  Indian. 

5.  The  German  Serf. 

6.  Buldarh  the  Hindoo  and  Pariah. 

7.  Giovanni  Ferreti. 

"It  only  remains  for  me  to  write  my  own  name,"  said  the  Supreme 
Chief,  with  a  sad  smile.  These  words  excited  a  universal  interest.  Every 
Brother  was  anxious  to  know  the  name  of  this  man,  who  had  been  called 
by  Destiny  to  the  supreme  sway  of  the  Brotherhood. 

"  My  father,"  he  said,  "  was  an  Arab,  who,  cast  ashore  upon  an  Island 
in  the  Mediterranean,  was  enslaved  by  a  Lord,  whose  castle  is  built  among 
the  rocks.  My  mother  was  a  native  of  the  island.  As  I  do  not  know  the 
name  of  my  father  in  the  Arab  tongue,  I  will — after  the  manner  of  slaves 


9       t  m 

THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  333 

over  all  the  world— take  the  name  of  the  lord  who  enslaved  my  fath  r. 
The  race  of  that  lord  has  become  extinct;  himself,  his  children,  all  his 
people,  were  swept  away  by  plague  ;  but  the  Son  of  the  Arab  Slave  will 
perpetuate  their  name — " 

And  beneath  the  names  of  the  Seven,  he  wrote  the  words— 

"  Leon  Buonaparte  of  Corsica.' 

His  bronzed  features  grew  radiant,  his  dark  eyes  gathered  new  light,  as 
he  gazed  upon  that  name. 

"  Perchance,  at  some  future  day,"  he  said,  "  that  name  of  the  extinct 
Italian  noble,  who  built  his  castle  on  the  rocks  of  Corsica — that  name,  now 
assumed  by  his  Slave,  may  shake  the  world,  and  read,  to  the  eyes  of 
Kings,  like  the  handwriting  on  Belshazzar's  wall !" 

And  raising  his  right  hand,  which  grasped  the  Golden  Medal,  toward 
heaven,  he  stood  motionless  as  stone,  while  his  eyes,  shining  with  pro- 
phetic light,  seemed  to  behold  already  a  world  of  slaves  starting  from  their 
chains,  and  building,  upon  the  wrecks  of  Despotism  and  Superstition,  the 
sublime  altar  of  human  Brotherhood. 

"  The  day  is  breaking,  my  brothers,  and  we  must  separate,"  he  said,  as 
he  took  the  torch  and  drew  near  the  veiled  figure  once  more — "  But  before 
you  hasten  to  your  stations,  in  the  various  regions  of  the  globe,  we  will 
meet  again.  Then, — at  our  next  meeting,  which  shall  not  be  many  days 
from  the  present  hour — I  will  reveal  to  you  the  regenerated  ftremonial  of 
our  Brotherhood.  Yes,  I  will  reveal  to  you  the  new  organization  of  the 
Order,  in  which  the  Spirit  of  the  Carpenter's  Son  shall  throb  and  burn  as 
the  life  of  all  life.  Armed  with  this  spirit — embodied  in  ritual  and  consti- 
tution— you  will  hasten  to  your  various  circles,  scattered  over  the  surface 
of  the  Globe,  and  swell  your  divisions  of  the  great  Fraternity,  by  new  con- 
verts, and  go  on  in  your  great  work,  until  the  masses  begin  to  feel  that  the 
Spirit  of  the  Carpenter's  Son,  freed  from  the  body  of  the  leaden  Church, 
walks  divinely  over  the  earth  again,  speaking  to  the  poor,  words  that  are 
mightier  than  armies. 

"Yes — I  anticipate  the  question  which  rises  to  your  lips  and  shines  in 
your  eyes.  You  ask  me,  what  manner  of  scenes  from  the  life  of  the 
Carpenter's  Son,  I  would  embody  in  the  ritual  of  our  Order  ?  The  ques- 
tion is  not  difficult  to  answer. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  day,  when  that  Carpenter's  Son  arose  in 
a  Nazarene  Synagogue,  and  proclaimed,  clad,  as  he  was,  in  the  gaberdine 
of  toil,  proclaimed  in  the  face  of  the  Rich  Man  and  the  Priest,  that  the 
Spirit  of  God  was.  upon  him  to  preach  good  tidings  to  the  Poor,  liberty  to 
the  bondman,  the  good  time  of  Brotherhood  to  all  men  ? 

"  Or,  have  you  ever  heard  of  the  Rich  Man,  who  came  one  day  to  the 
Carpenter's  Son,  and,  won  by  the  divine  beauty  of  that  Spirit  which  shone 
in  his  eyes,  asked  sorrowfully,  '  Master,  what  shall  I  do  to  inherit  eternal 
life?' 


336 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


44  The  Carpenter's  Son  looked  in  the  face  of  the  Rich  man,  marked  his 
robes  of  fine  linen  and  purple,  and  then  said,  in  that  voice  which  melted 
the  souls  of  all  who  listened  to  its  music — 

"  4  Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  to  the  Poor  P 

44  Such  scenes  as  these  we  will  embody  in  our  ritual,  and  make  the  life 
of  our  life  !  Yes,  to  the  Poor  we  will  preach  good  tidings,  liberty,  light! 
But  to  the  Rich,  armed  with  the  Justice  of  the  Carpenter's  Son,  we  will 
thunder  the  sentence  which  God  has  pronounced  upon  their  heads — '  Sell 
all  thou  hast  and  give  to  the  Poor  !  Restore  to  the  mass  of  mankind  tlie 
lands  which  ye  have  stolen  from  them,  and  baptized  with  their  blood! 
Divide  among  the  Poor  yonr  ill-gotten  gold — give  back,  give  back,  in  the 
name  of  God,  your  usurped  power,  and  let  your  tardy  Rejjentance  be 
aided  by  a  strict  and  universal  Restitution  /" 

The  words  had  not  passed  his  lips,  when  he  dashed  the  torch  upon  the 
ground,  and  the  cavern  was  enveloped  in  darkness.  By  the  last  ray,  the 
Brothers  beheld  his  sunburnt  features  flashing  as  with  a  divine  radiance, 
and  through  the  darkness,  they  heard  him  speak  in  a  low,  deep  voice, 
tremulous  with  unutterable  joy — 

44  Then,  indeed,  shall  the  Lead  become  Gold,  and  the  Sneer  be  changed 
into  a  Smile." 

HERE  ENDETH  THE  MANUSCRIPT  OF  BROTHER  ANSELM. 


CHAPTER  TWENTIETH. 

THE  LILY. 

Completely  overwhelmed  by  the  revelations' of  this  Manuscript,  which 
he  had  taken  from  the  breast  of  the  Leaden  Image,  Paul  remained  like  a 
statue  upon  the  oaken  bench,  for  some  moments  after  he  had  finished 
those  incredible  pages,  without  the  power  to  speak  or  stir.  His  eyes 
were  fixed,  their  brightness  dimmed  by  a  misty  film,  He  looked  upon 
the  trees,  the  grass,  the  flowers,  but  did  not  behold  any  thing  save  the 
Phantoms  of  the  Manuscript. 

The  sun  was  low  in  the  heaven,  and  the  thick  shadows  began  to  gather 
round  the  Block-House. 

But  Paul  did  not  mark  the  declining  sun,  nor  call  to  mind  his  promise 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  337 

to  meet  Reginald  at  sunset  under  the  Blasted  Pine.  His  soul  was  ab- 
sorbed— bewildered  by  the' Revelations  of  the  Manuscript.  The  forms 
of  the  Secret  Brotherhood  flitted  between  his  eyes  and  the  light ;  he  saw 
that  Prophet-Peasant  in  his  gray  garb  stand  beside  the  veiled  figure,- while 
words  full  of  divine  inspiration  fell  from  his  lips. 

His  thoughts  in  truth  were  crowded  and  tumultuous  ;  a  thousand 
images  whirled  through  his  brain. 

And  yet,  amid  the  very  chaos  of  his  musings,  there  came  certain  well- 
defined  ideas  shooting  through  the  gloom,  like  stars  through  the  darkness 
of  night. 

"The  Golden  Medal  is  in  existence!  I  may  possess  it,  and  with  it 
grasp  the  power  of  the  Brotherhood.  A  strange  Prophecy,  and  yet  it  has 
in  part  been  fulfilled.  The  Apostle  of  the  New  World  came  long  years 
ago  in  the  person  of  William  Penn.  The  time  of  the  Deliverer  is  at 
hand.  I  saw  him  consecrated,  and  it  is  my  destiny  to  guard  him  from 
the  hands  of  his  foes." 

He  turned  the  last  page  of  the  Manuscript,  and  started  from  the  bench 
as  he 'recognised  the  handwriting  of  his  father. 

*'  You  have  read,  my  Son,  and  it  is  now  your  duty  to  obey. 
"  A  great  work,  a  sublime  destiny  is  yours  ! 

M  It  is  your  destiny  to  claim  the  Golden  Medal ;  to  unseal  the  Book  of 
the  Rosy  Cross,  in  which  are  revealed  the  signs,  symbols,  and  all  the 
mysteries  of  the  great  Brotherhood — yours,  to  read  the  name  of  the 
Deliverer,  and  confront  him  with  the  Sword  and  the  Dagger. 

"You  will  read  this  when  I  am  dead,  after  the  Revelation  of  the  Sealed 
Chamber,  with  its  unrelenting  Curse,  has  passed  from  your  soul,  and  left 
your  heart  serene,  your  arm  nerved  and  free  for  the  accomplishment  of 
your  great  destiny. 

"  When  you  are  worthy,  you  will  discover  the  (golden  Medal,  which 
bears  the  Symbol  of  the  Globe,  the  Cross,  and  the  Rising  Sun. 

"  When  your  soul  is  calm,  you  will  learn  the  truth — then,  at  the  feet  of 
die  Imprisoned,  you  will  discover  the  D  . 

"1  have  often  told  you,  my  Son,  that  the  cause  of  my  departure  from 
Germany,  was  a  vision  which  rushed  upon  my  eyes,  while  bending  over 
the  body  of  your  mother,  in  the  vault  of  the  castle,  which  rises  above  the 
Rhine.  I  heard  the  voice  of  God  ;  it  bade  me  go  forth  into  the  solitudes 
of  the  New  World,  and  await  the  coming  of  the  Deliverer. 

"  This  was  the  truth,  Paul,  but  not  all  the  truth. 

'-''After  you  have  read  the  Revelation  of  the  Sealed  Chamber,  you  wiM 
be  able  to  determine  how  far  the  Curse, — the  Boom  —  or  shall  I  say,  the 
Malady — of  our  house  and  race,  shaped  my  purposes,  and  urged  me  to 
become  either  a  Wanderer  vpon  the  face  of  the  earth,  or  a  nameless  Dweller 
in  the  solitude*  of  a  trackless  wilderness.^ 


338 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


"  And  yet,  aided  by  the  Revelation  of  the  Sealed  Chamber,  you 
will  not  be  able  to  arrive  at  the  whole  truth,  until  you  have  read  the 
Manuscript  of  Brother  Anselm. 

"  Even  then,  another  word  is  needed.    Listen,  my  Son. 

"  While  absorbed  in  the  mysteries  of  the  Divine  Prophecies,  about  the 
year  1755,  I  first  acquired  the  friendship  of  Brother  Anselm.  He  was 
then  a  very  aged  man.  He  had  been  present  at  the  convocation  of  the 
Brotherhood  recorded  in  the  Manuscript,  and  he  was  one  of  the  seven. 

"  He  was,  indeed,  the  only  one  living  in  1755.  He  was  the  last  of  the 
Seven  appointed  by  the  Peasant,  who  was  elected  Supreme  Chief  at  least 
a  century  before  he  assumed  the  name  of  his  dead  Master,  calling  himself 
Louis  Bonaparte. 

"  The  Supreme  Chief  had  been  dead  many  years,  when  I  first  met 
Brother  Anselm.  That  aged  man,  who  had  lived  far  beyond  the  common 
term  of  human  life,  was  the  only  remaining  guardian  of  the  Sacred 
Symbol. — You  will  find  his  name  written  in  the  manuscript,  as  the 
German  Serf. — 

M  By  him  I  was  initiated  into  the  Brotherhood ;  and  at  his  feet  I 
learned  the  symbols,  the  ceremonies,  and  the  universal  language  of  the 
Rosy  Cross. 

"  At  the  time  of  the  great  cala??iity  which  bejel  our  house — you  have 
read  of  it  in  the  Revelations  of  the  Sealed  Chamber — Brother  Anselm 
pointed  to  the  New  World,  as  the  place  appointed  for  the  next  Convoca- 
tion of  the  Chiefs  of  the  Rosy  Cross.  There  the  Deliverer  would 
appear,  who  was  to  re-create  the  New  World,  and  thus  prepare  it  for  its 
imposing  share  in  the  regeneration  of  the  human  race.  This  Deliverer 
was  foretold  not  only  by  the  Prophecy  of  the  Rosy  Cro«s,  but  also  by  the 
Revelations  of  St.  John. 

"Sick  of  the  Old  World, — horror-stricken  by  the  calamity  which  befel 
eur  house  — wishing  to  save  you  from  the  Destiny,  or  the  Malady  of  our 
racR — I  listened  to  the  persuasions  of  Brother  Anselm.  I  came  to  the 
Wilderness  with  you  and  Catharine ;  accompanied  by  the  Venerable 
Anselm,  and  two  other  brethren  of  the  Rosy  Cross,  Joseph  and 
Immanuel. 

"  I  vowed  to  Brother  Anselm  a  solemn  vow,  as  I  have  told  you  before, 
that  you  should  be  educated  in  solitude,  afar  from  the  world,  so  that  you 
might  take  the  Oath  of  Celibacy,  and  thus  be  prepared  not  only  to  become 
a  Brother  of  the  Holy  Cross,  but  its  Supreme  Chief.  Not  only  the 
Guardian  of  the  Deliverer,  but  the  Regenerator  of  our  Order,  and  the  em- 
bodied Destiny  of  the  human  race. 

"The  solemn  Convocation  of  the  Chiefs  will  be  held  in  June,  1777— on 
the  last  night  of  the  second  week. 

"It  may  be,  that  the  hand  of  death,  the  canker  of  disorganization,  have 
been  terribly  at  work  to  crush  our  Brotherhood.    It  may  be,  that  those 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WIS3A  HIKON. 


339 


innumerable  Circles,  which,  at  the  time  of  the  last  convocation,  were  scat- 
tered over  every  land  in  the  Globe,  and  yet  connected  with  each  other  by 
a  mysterious  bond  of  union,  have  suffered  their  ritual  to  decay,  their  cere- 
monies to  degenerate  — the  great  bond  of  Union  itself,  which  was  once  a 
belt  of  iron,  to  fall  to  pieces  like  a  rope  of  sand. 

"It  is  even  possible,  that  on  the  last  night  of  the  second  week  in  June, 
1777,  while  you  await  the  coming  of  the  Chiefs,  in  the  appointed  place, 
not  a  single  one  will  appear.  Yes,  the  tradition  which  commanded  them 
to  meet,  may  have  been  lost  in  the  mists  of  time,  and  the  clamors  of  battle, 
and  the  changes  of  circumstances. 

"  Even  in  that  case  your  Destiny  is  still  glorious.  For  then  the  Golden 
Medal  will  be  yours,  and  by  virtue  of  the  last  testament  of  Brother  Anselm, 
(contained  in  the  Book  of  the  Rosy  Cross,)  you  will  become  the  Supreme 
Chief  of  the  Brotherhood. 

"  This  Medal,  combined  with  the  symbolic  knowledge  which  you  will 
derive  from  the  Book  of  the  Holy  Cross,  will  give  you  entrance  into  all 
other  secret  organizations  on  the  face  of  the  globe,  and  with  the  right  of 
entrance  will  come  the  power  to  command. 

"For  the  Brotherhood  of  the  Holy  Cross  is  not  only  superior  in  symbolic 
knowledge  to  all  other  secret  organizations,  but,  in  truth,  all  these  organi- 
zations, however  styled,  are  but  illegitimate  branches  of  our  great  order. 
For  example — that  which  is  taught  dimly  among  the  Masonic  Fraternities 
is  fully  revealed  in  the  Brotherhood  of  the  Rosy  Cross. 

"  Behold  your  destiny,  my  son — weigh  it  well — ponder  long  on  every 
minute  detail  of  your  great  work. 

"In  order  that  you  may  become  the  Supreme  Chief  and  the  Regenerator 
of  the  Brotherhood,  you  must  first  sacrifice  at  its  holy  altar,  every  thing 
like  the  ambition  of  the  world,  or  the  love  of  woman. 

"As  the  Supreme  Chief,  your  name  will  not  be  known  in  history.  You 
will  be  lost  to  the  sight  of  the  world.  You  will,  in  truth,  stamp  your 
almost  supernatural  impress  upon  history,  and  sway  like  a  Destiny  the 
fate  of  nations — of  mankind.  But  as  an  individual,  as  a  man,  you  will  not  be 
known.  Cut  off  from  all  ties  of  friendship  or  of  love,  sacred  and  set  apart 
from  the  ambitions  or  the  fears  of  common  men,  you  will  fulfil  your  awful 
task,  glide  away,  and  leave  your  work,  but  not  your  name  or  your 
memory,  to  tell  that  you  ever  had  an  existence. 

"  This  is  one  side  of  the  picture,  Paul.  Look  upon  the  reverse  of 
the  medal. 

"  Reject  the  mission  which  is  offered  you.  Go  forth  into  the  great 
world,  determined  to  war,  to  conquer,  to  love  and  to  hate,  to  gather  gold 
and  scatter  it  again,  like  common  men. 

"  What  will  be  the  result  of  a  course  like  this  ?  I  do  not  prophesy, 
Paul,  nor  pronounce  a  Judgment ;  I  simply  address  your  reason.  The 
result  then,  is  not  very  difficult  to  determine.  Rejecting  the  great  mission 


340 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


for  the  ambitions  of  common  men,  you  will  undoubtedly  acquire  fame, 
rank  and  gold.  You  will  be  loved  by  many  beautiful  women,  and  feared 
by  many  powerful  men.  Your  wildest  ambition  may  be  gratified ;  you 
may  place  your  foot  upon  the  highest  step  of  that  golden  staircase,  which, 
the  old  fable  tells  us,  leads  ever  upwards,  before  the  eyes  of  the  ambitious. 
"And  what  will  be  the  end  of  all  ? 

"  The  men  whom  you  trust  will  betray  you.  The  woman  whom  you 
love  may  prove  false.  Worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  dreaded  of  all  judg- 
ments, she  may  bear  a  child  which  will  inherit  the  horrible  Destiny, 
the  incurable  Malady  of  our  race!  The  gold  which  you  win,  may  only 
serve  to  poison  your  blood  with  the  fever  of  luxury.  The  highest  step 
of  the  golden  stairway — even  if  you  attain  it — may  only  reveal  to  you  a 
yawning  chasm  at  the  other  side.  A  chasm  that  seems  fathomless,  and 
yet  not  deep  enough  to  bury  your  despair,  when  you  reflect  on  what  yon. 
are,  as  a  Man  of  the  hour — on  what  you  might  have  been,  as  the  Regene- 
rator of  the  Brotherhood,  the  Destiny  of  a  World. 

"  You  will  read  this  when  I  am  dead. 

"  From  the  grave  I  speak  to  you.  Choose,  my  son,  and  choose  with 
freedom,  for  my  death  removes  from  your  head  the  Curse  of  our  race. 

"  Your  Father." 

Paul  sank  on  his  knees  and  clasped  his  hands.  The  manuscript  fell 
beside  him,  among  the  grass  and  flowers. 

"Father!"  he  cried,  raising  to  heaven  a  face  which  was  softened  in 
every  feature  by  a  holy  serenity — "  My  choice  is  made  !  Now,  that  thy 
bones  are  dust,  the  fatal  secret  of  the  Sealed  Chamber  can  no  longer  cloud 
my  soul,  and  urge  my  arm  to  that  most  terrible  deed.  I  am  indeed  free ! 
Free  !  My  choice,  then,  is  made  at  once  !  I  will  sever  from  my  heart 
all  ties  of  human  ambition — I  will  sacrifice  the  love  of  woman,  at  the  altar 
of  this  holy  work.  No  child  shall  ever  be  born,  to  struggle  as  I  have 
struggled,  with  the  Curse — the  Curse  of  our  race. 

"  Father  !  By  thy  spirit  I  swear  to  accept  the  destiny  which  thou  didst 
design  for  me.  I  will  become  the  Regenerator  of  the  Brotherhood — I  will 
hover  round  the  Deliverer,  his  safeguard  if  he  is  true,  his  executioner  if  he 
is  false.  Thanks,  Father !  Thy  words  have  removed  the  Curse  from 
my  soul." 

It  was  an  impressive  sight  to  see  him  kneeling  there,  his  eyes  flashing 
with  the  joy  which  flooded  every  avenue  of  his  soul,  his  forehead  radiant 
with  a  holy  energy,  his  voice  breaking  full  and  deep  upon  the  breathless 
stillness  of  the  forest. 

At  last,  after  the  agony  of  years,  the  cloud  was  lifted  from  his  soul. 

Neither  the  secret  of  the  Sealed  Chamber,  nor  the  love  of  that  beautiful 
girl,  who  tempted  him  to  break  his  oath,  could  now  sway  him  aside  from 
his  great  work. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


341 


After  the  first  outburst  of  joy,  Paul  fell  into  a  profound  reverie. 

Where  was  the  Golden  Medal  ?  Where  the  Book  of  the  Rosy  Cross  I 
What  was  that  word  which  terminated  the  enigmatical  sentence — -"At  the 

feet  of  the  Imprisoned  you  ivill  discover  the  D  How  should  he 

acquire  the  meaning  of  that  word,  the  hidden  truth  of  the  whole  sentence  ? 

These  queries  agitated  his  mind  ;  but  amid  all  his  uncertainties  a  pro- 
found gladness  nestled  in  the  depths  of  his  heart,  when  he  reflected  that — 
his  father  dead — the  Secret  of  the  Sealed  Chamber  could  threaten  him  no 
longer,  with  its  foreboding  of  thrice-infamous  crime. 

And  yet  these  queries  must  be  answered  ere  he  had  a  right  to  read  the 
Deliverer's  name. 

While  Paul  was  absorbed  in  this  profound  reverie,  the  shadows  gathered 
darker  around  the  old  Block-House,  and  the  stillness  of  the  forest  grew 
deeper. 

It  was  a  beautiful  thing  to  see  those  masses  of  deep  shadow  and  vivid 
sunlight  rest  together  upon  the  roof  of  the  Block-House,  like  strange  birds, 
whose  immense  wings,  of  midnight  blackness,  were  streaked  with  feathers 
of  shining  gold. 

And  while  the  shadows  deepened  and  the  forest  grew  more  breathlessly 
still,  Paul  remained  on  his  knees,  his  hands  resting  on  the  oaken  bench, 
while  the  manuscript  lay  near  his  side. 

."To  night  is  the  seventh  night  of  the  second  week  of  June,  1777 — " 
he  murmured  aloud. 

Was  it  sleep  that  came  over  his  senses — bewildered  as  they  were  by 
the  sudden  joy — or  did  only  his  profound  reverie  deepen  into  a  waking 
dream  ? 

For  some  time,  he  remained  unconscious  of  all  external  sights  or  sounds 
— his  soul  was  wrapt  within  itself — the  images  of  the  secret  Brotherhood, 
the  words  of  his  father,  possessed  his  brain. 

After  some  time  had  elapsed,  he  started  from  this  reverie,  like  a  man 
waking  from  a  dream. 

There  was  a  lily  in  his  right  hand— a  beautiful  flower,  with  its  snowy 
cup  still  sparkling  with  the  diamond  dew.  Paul  gazed  upon  it  with  inde- 
scribable wonder — inhaled  its  delicious  fragrance,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

Then  glancing  to  the  right  and  left,  he  sought  to  behold  the  giver  of  this 
fragrant  blessing.  There  was  no  one  in  sight — all  was  silent  and  shadowy 
about  the  Block-House. 

"It  seems  to  have  fallen  from  Heaven  !"  he  cried,  pressing  it  once  more 
to  his  lips. 

Paul  started  to  his  feet;  the  sun  was  hidden  behind  the  trees  ;  his  beams 
flashed  among  the  huge  trunks  like  arrows  of  tremulous  gold. 
It  was  the  hour  of  sunset. 

At  once  Paul  remembered  his  promise  to  Reginald,  and  his  vow  to  sever 
from  his  heart  all  ties  of  friendship  or  love. 


242  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

"I  will  see  him  for  the  last  time, — tell  him  the  story  of  my  life, — and 
then,  still  brothers  in  heart,  we  part  for  ever!" 

He  hastened  toward  the  gate, — but  suddenly  paused  ere  he  advanced 
five  paces. 

"It  is  my  duty  to  remain.  The  Golden  Medal — the  Book  of  the  Bro- 
therhood— the  name  of  the  Deliverer — these  all  demand  my  earnest  thought. 
And  to-night  is  the  seventh  night  of  the  second  week  in  June !  But  Regi- 
nald— he  has  been  a  brother  to  me — ah  !  1  will  see  him,  and  return  with- 
in the  hour !" 

He  turned  his  face  from  the  door  of  the  Block-House,  and  once  more 
hastened  toward  the  gate.  His  step  was  buoyant,  his  manner  joyous,  his 
face  full  of  bloom,  his  eye  lighted  up  with  new  fire. 

Again  the  lily  which  he  grasped  met  his  eye. 

"  A  good  omen  !"  he  cried,  and  hurried  through  the  gate. 

Near  the  sycamore  tree,  he  paused  for  an  instant,  still  holding  the  lily 
in  his  hand. 

"  It  is  very  near  sunset,  and  I  cannot  reach  the  appointed  place  in  time, 
if  I  follow  the  windings  of  the  Wissahikon.  There  was  a  path  which  led 
directly  to  the  south-west ;  I  remember  it  well  !" 

To  follow  the  windings  of  the  Wissahikon,  until  he  reached  the  Blasted 
Pine,  was  to  traverse  a  distance  of  at  least  two  miles.  The  direct  path, 
leading  through  the  woods  and  fields,  was  scarcely  a  mile  in  length ;  it 
encountered  the  Wissahikon  near  the  Schuylkill.  After  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, Paul  determined  to  take  this  path. 

Turning  his  face  toward  the  west,  he  sought  earnestly  among  the  leaves 
and  shrubbery  for  traces  of  the  path,  but  his  search  was  in  vain. 

"It  is  very  near  sunset,  and  I  will  be  too  late!"  he  cried,  in  despair,  and 
at  once,  with  his  face  turned  toward  the  south-west,  plunged  into  the  mazes 
of  the  thickly  grown  brush-wood.  His  way  was  choked  by  branches  of 
trees,  interwoven  with  the  foliage  of  the  laurel,  which  covered  the  ground, 
between  the  trunks  of  the  oaks  and  pines;  plunging  deeper  into  the  gloom, 
without  a  ray  of  light  to  break  the  depth  of  shadow,  he  still  endeavored 
to  keep  his  face  toward  the  south-west. 

At  last  he  came  upon  an  open  space,  where  there  was  a  carpet  of  moss, 
sprinkled  with  flowers,  and  framed  in  the  trunks  of  huge  beechen  trees. 

A  gush  of  sunlight  warmed  the  place,  and  Paul,  at  the  same  instant, 
beheld  the  lily,  which  he  had  not  ceased  to  grasp  for  a  moment,  and  the 
entrance  of  the  path  for  which  he  was  seeking. 

The  sunlight  shone  warmly  over  the  pure  white  flower,  and  Paul  could 
not  turn  his  eyes  away  from  its  beautiful  cup,  tinted  as  it  was  by  golden 
beams. 

"Where  did  I  obtain  this  flower?"  he  murmured,  as  he  paused  in  the 
centre  of  the  glade,  his  dark  attire  and  impressive  countenance  shown  dis- 
tinctly in  the  sudden  sunlight. 


THE  llONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  343 

Had  he  gathered  it  in  his  slumber?  There  were  no  flowers  like  it  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  Block-House.  Perchance  it  had  been  left  upon  the  oaken 
bench  by  some  wayfarer.  And  yet  its  fragrance  was  still  fresh  ;  the  dew 
sparkled  in  diamond  drops  upon  its  petals. 

Paul  stood  very  still,  in  the  rays  of  the  sun,  his  countenance  shadowed 
by  thought. 

This  incident  of  the  lily,  which  he  had  found  in  his  grasp,  when  awak- 
ing from  his  reverie — or  his  slumber — excited  a  train  of  strange  emotions. 

"  It  has  been  placed  in  my  hand  by  a  living  being  ;  some  unknown  friend 
has  stolen  to  my  side,  as  I  was  lost  in  thought,  and  dropped  it  gently  upon 
the  oaken  bench.    Some  unknown  friend  !" 

Paul  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  forehead;  a  sudden  ejaculation  was 
forced  from  his  lips,  by  a  vivid  thought. 

"  Catharine  !"  he  exclaimed — "  she  lives  !  Yes,  even  as  I  knelt  by  the 
oaken  bench,  she  has  stolen  to  my  side,  pressed  her  kiss  upon  my  fore- 
head, and  left  this  flower  in  my  hand,  as  a  token  of  her  love.  It  is  indeed 
a  beautiful  symbol  of  a  sister's  love." 

The  thought  filled  him  with  a  sudden  joy,  but  the  joy  was  linked  with 
an  inexplicable  horror. 

"  Catharine  is  living,  and — my  father — is  he  still  living?" 

He  felt  the  cold  moisture  upon  his  forehead  at  the  thought. 

For  with  that  thought  all  his  madness  came  back  again.  His  dread  of 
the  Sealed  Chamber  and  its  Revelation,  his  Remorse  at  the  memory  of  that 
fatal  night. 

But  the  level  rays  of  the  sun,  shooting  over  the  sod,  reminded  him  once 
more  of  his  promise  to  Reginald. 

He  hurried  onward,  entering  the  hidden  path,  as  he  dashed  aside  a 
beechen  branch  whose  foliage  swept  his  face.  But  no  sooner  had  he 
entered  the  path,  than  his  steps  were  arrested  by  a  sight  which  at  once 
enchained  his  eyes. 

On  the  right  of  the  path  there  was  an  open  space,  but  a  few  yards  square, 
encircled  by  a  rudely  constructed  fence.  That  open  space  was  surround- 
ed by  the  great  trunks  of  chesnut,  oak  and  poplar,  but  their  branches 
parted  above  it,  and  suffered  the  sunlight  to  fall  upon  it,  like  a  smile  of 
golden  rays. 

There  was  a  gentle  elevation  of  sod  in  the  centre  of  the  space,  encircled 
by  the  fence,  surrounded  by  the  great  trees,  and  blessed  by  the  golden  rays. 
A  gentle  elevation — a  mound  of  moss,  whose  dark  green  surface  was  only 
varied  by  a  solitary  wild  rose,  whose  leaves  were  touched  with  perfect 
bloom.    Beside  the  rose,  was  the  broken  stalk  of  another  flower. 

Paul  glanced  upon  the  broken  stalk,  and  then  upon  the  flower  which  he 
held  in  his  hand ;  an  irresistible  conviction  rushed  upon  his  soul. 

"It  is  the  stalk  of  the  lily  which  I  hold  in  my  grasp,"  he  cried,  "and 
I  am  looking  upon  the  grave  of  Catharine  !" 


344  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  Ol£ 

Won  by  the  strange  beauty  of  the  place,  he  leaned  against  a  tree,  and 
gave  his  soul  to  the  influence  of  the  golden  atmosphere  which  invested 
that  lonely  grave. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  spot  for  the  sleep  of  the  dead ;  there,  in  th* 
bosom  of  the  wild  forest,  among  the  giant  trees,  with  a  little  sunshine  to 
bless  the  place,  and  a  solitary  rose  blooming  over  the  grave 

Paul  could  not  turn  his  eyes  from  that  lonely  mound,  framed  in  a  rude 
fence,  and  with  a  single  flower  upon  its  green  bosom. 

There  was  no  stone  to  mark  the  spot,  no  elaborate  inscription,  to  tell 
whose  ashes  slumbered  there. 

In  truth,  it  seemed  as  if  the  dead  were  left  alone  to  the  eyes  of  the 
Angels — perchance — alone  with  the  tenderness  of  God. 

"  It  was  no  human  hand  that  placed  this  flower  in  mine  !"  the  thought 
crossed  the  mind  of  Paul — "  It  is  a  good  omen,  sent  to  me  from  the  Other 
World !" 

And  he  knelt  there,  and  spoke  the  name  of  his  Sister  to  the  still  air,  and 
in  his  dreamy  way  conversed  with  the  dead. 

As  his  clasped  hands  rested  upon  the  rude  fence,  his  yearning  eyes 
were  fixed  immovably  upon  the  grave,  and  the  sunlight  touched  his 
forehead,  his  waving  hair,  as  with  a  blessing,  while  his  form  was  lost  in 
shadow. 

O,  beautiful,  upon  the  cold  bosom  of  a  desolate  world,  blossoms  that 
holiest  flower,  living  when  all  beside  is  dead,  blooming  on,  when  every  hope 
is  cold  and  withered — that  flower  which  angels  plant,  and  the  smile  of 
God  nourishes  into  life — a  Sister's  Love  ! 

Paul  could  not  restrain  his  tears.  He  suffered  them  to  flow  freely. 
There  was  no  one  to  witness  them  but  Heaven, — and  perchance  the  Spirit 
of  his  dead  sister  was  hovering  in  that  sunlight,  near  the  solitary  rose, 
which  trembled  on  the  bosom  of  the  grave  ! 

And  Paul  forgot  every  thing — the  Past  and  the  Future,  his  Remorse 
and  his  Hope — as  he  gazed  upon  his  sister's  tomb.  Forgot  every  thing, 
and  felt  his  soul  filled  with  an  unutterable  yearning  to  sleep  there,  beside 
her,  and  be  at  rest,  with  some  sunshine  and  a  stray  wild  flower  over  his 
ashes. 

At  last,  the  Lily  which  he  grasped — that  flower  which  had  been  sent  to 
him  by  a  supernatural  hand — called  him  back  to  life. 

"It  is  a  good  Omen,"  he  said,  once  more — "It  tells  me  to  bury  the 
Past,  and  look  forward  to  the  Future  !" 

He  arose,  and  in  a  moment  had  passed  from  the  quiet  grave  into  the 
shadows.  Yet  ere  he  went,  he  lingered  for  a  moment  on  the  verge  of 
the  glade,  turning  his  eloquent  eyes  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  exclaimed  : 

"Catharine!  Catharine!  There  may  be  women  in  the  world,  with 
lovelier  faces  than  thine,  but  never — never  lived  a  truer  spirit ;  never  was 


■ 


the  Monk  of  the  wissahikon. 


345 


the  divine  tenderness  of  a  Sister's  love  embodied  in  a  countenance  more 
angel-like  than  thine." 

He  turned  away  with  a  shudder.  With  the  image  of  his  sister,  arose 
another  image  of  a  far  different  nature.  A  woman's  face,  shaded  by  raven 
hair,  with  the  fire  of  a  maddening  passion  shining  in  her  large  dark  eyes ! 

It  came  with  the  memory  of  his  sister's  pale,  golden  hair  and  azure 
eyes  ;  it  spoke  to  him  of  the  "  last  night"  when  he  trembled  on  the 
threshold  of  the  Sealed  Chamber. 

14  She  also  is  with  the  dead,  that  strangely  beautiful  woman,  who  with 
a  look  urged  me  on  to  Ruin.  Soon  1  will  stand  upon  the  sod  which 
guards  her  ashes.  And  all  her  mad  hopes,  all  those  desires,  for  which 
the  universe  itself  seemed  but  a  narrow  shrine,  are  now  hidden  in  a  little 
space  of  grassy  earth.  Father — Sister — the  beautiful  Tempter — all  dead! 
I  am  indeed  alone  !  The  friendship  of  Reginald  alone  binds  me  to  the 
world.  And  that  last  tie  I  must  sever,  and  say  to  all  the  common  hopes 
and  ambitions  of  mankind,  farewell.  When  I  am  indeed  alone,  I  will  be 
prepared  to  enter  upon  my  solemn  Destiny." 

Paul  plunged  deeper  into  the  shadows  of  the  forest. 

The  pa,th  which  he  followed,  wound  into  the  wildest  recesses  of  the 
Wissahikon.  Now  its  traces  were  almost  lost  amid  rude  forms  of  rock, 
which,  scattered  among  the  trees,  seemed  like  the  fragments  of  some  hill 
of  granite,  and  again  it  skirted  a  rill  whose  waters  were  concealed  by  wild 
grass,  while  the  willows  bending  over  it,  shut  out  the  light  of  the  sun. 

Emerging  from  the  woed,  he  beheld  an  undulating  field,  stretching  far 
to  the  west,  and  clad  in  vivid  green.  It  was  a  field  of  clover,  ripe  for  the 
scythe.  Not  far  from  the  wood,  a  bold  elevation  was  marked  against  the 
western  sky.  Paul  pursued  his  way  through  the  clover,  and  in  a  few 
moments  stood  upon  a  rock,  which  crowned  this  elevation. 

Looking  to  the  east  and  south,  he  beheld  the  forest  extending  in  the 
form  of  a  crescent. 

That  crescent  marked  the  course  of  the  Wissahikon. 

Beyond  the  tops  of  the  trees  which  formed  this  crescent,  he  beheld  a. 
broad  green  hill,  on  whose  summit  frowned  a  grove  of  pines.  Amid  their 
deep  shadows,  he  beheld  the  walls  of  a  mansion — it  was  the  mansion  of 
Isaac  Van  Behme. 

Paul  trembled  at  the  sight,  and  at  once,  the  memory  of  the  beautiful 
woman  bewildered  his  soul. 

"  It  looks  sad  and  desolate  !"  he  said,  gazing  upon  that  distant  grove 
of  pines — "  I  soon  will  discover  her  grave  among  those  shadows." 

Turning  his  gaze  farther  to  the  west,  he  saw  a  white  form,  gleaming 
dimly  from  a  clump  of  magnificent  trees,  clad  in  the  luxuriant  foliage  of 
June. 

"  The  Blasted  Pine  !" 


V 

346  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

And  then,  gazing  over  the  clover  field,  he  beheld,  at  its  western  ex- 
tremity, a  farm-house  embosomed  among  orchard  trees. 

Over  its  steep  roof,  the  disc  of  the  setting  sun  was  only  half-visible. 
A  cloudless  sky,  a  field  of  clover,  a  farm-house  embosomed  among  orchard 
trees,  and  a  forest  extending  in  the  form  of  a  crescent, — all  illumined  by 
the  sun,  whose  broad  disc  was  half-concealed  by  the  horizon. 

This  was  the  view  which  Paul  beheld,  as  he  stood  on  the  rock,  with 
his  soul  still  awed  by  the  shadow  and  the  silence  of  the  forest,  which  he 
had  only  a  moment  left. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sight — the  Ideal  of  rural  beauty, — ranged  side  by 
side  with  the  dark  old  forest,  whose  profound  solitudes  overwhelmed  the 
heart  with  thoughts  of  wild  grandeur. 

"  I  have  but  to  descend  into  the  valley  of  the  Wissahikon,  cross  the 
stream  by  means  of  the  rocks,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  will  stand  at  the 
foot  of  the  Blasted  Pine.  But  I  must  hasten  my  steps,  for  the  sun  is  half- 
concealed  by  the  horizon." 

Paul  stood  upon  the  rock,  and  surveyed  the  scenes  of  his  life. 

We  have,  indeed,  wasted  pages  without  a  purpose,  and  expended  words 
in  vain,  if  we  have  not  succeeded  in  impressing  the  mind  of  the  reader 
with  the  peculiar  strength  and  genius  of  an  organization  like  that  of  Paul 
Ardenheim.  He  was  one  of  those  natures  which,  indeed,  do  not  often 
appear  in  the  lower  world — natures  made  up  of  Good  and  Evil  in  large 
proportions,  and  swayed  to  either  side  by  the  hand  of  Fate,  or  perchance 
the  accident  of  the  merest  circumstance. 

While  engaged  in  the  old  records,  which  tell  of  his  life,  we  have  found 
it  difficult  to  avoid  loving  this  strange  man,  and  admiring  his  genius, 
despite  his  wayward  Destiny.  Under  other  circumstances  he  might  have 
become  a  Poet,  a  General,  or  the  Dictator  of  a  Revolutionary  age.  As  it 
was,  he  only  hovers  over  the  page  of  history,  a  vague  shadow,  that  may 
appear  an  Apparition  of  Good,  or  the  Ghost  of  Evil,  according  to  the 
vision  of  the  spectator. 

Had  he  been  reared  amid  the  scenes  of  every-day  life,  accustomed  to 
those  vulgar  realities  which  chafe  enthusiasm  into  dull  but  practical 
energy,  he  would  doubtless  have  made  his  mark  upon  the  age,  a  stern, 
rugged,  but  powerful  Man.  Had  he,  from  infancy,  grown  up  amid  scenes 
of  cold,  unpoetical  Want — habituated  to  all  that  the  direst  extreme  of 
poverty  can  inflict  upon  the  child  of  the  poor — with  here  and  there  a  ray 
of  education  gleaming  in  upon  the  squalor  and  nakedness  of  his  existence 
—  he  might,  yes,  he  would  have  found  a  rugged  joy  in  battling  against  his 
fate,  and  in  striking  a  way  for  his  genius,  even  through  the  wilderness  of 
Hunger,  Temptation  and  Wretchedness. 

But  his  education  was  altogether  different.  He  had  been  reared  in  the 
profound  solitudes  of  an  almost  untrodden  forest.  His  mind  had  been 
fashioned  amid  scenes  of  the  wildest  grandeur.    The  lessons  of  fanati- 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


347 


cism,  mysticism — or  superstition, — which  he  had  received  from  his  father, 
seemed  embodied  again  in  the  stillness  of  ihe  awful  forest,  through  whose 
depths  the  stream  of  Wissahikon,  like  a  spirit,  sung  its  unceasing  song — 
in  the  glory  of  sunrise,  when  the  tops  of  the  trees  were  touched  with 
gold,  and  the  last  star  trembled  ere  it  faded  into  air — in  the  majesty  of 
sunset,  when  the  green  meadow  and  the  dark  woods  lay  side  by  side, 
mellowed  by  the  same  ray — in  the  profound  shadow  which  came  down 
at  night  upon  the  scene,  wrapping  the  stream  and  the  leaf,  the  cavern  and 
the  flower,  in  its  bosom,  as  the  pall  shuts  in  the  dead. 

He  had  been  reared  alone — set  apart  from  mankind — and  yet,  every 
moment  of  his  life,  in  close  and  awful  companionship  with  the  Other 
World. 

It  will  be  seen  at  a  glance,  that  this  kind  of  education  rendered  his 
nature  at  once  sensitive  and  fearless.  He  united — says  the  old  MSS. — 
the  tenderness  of  the  woman,  with  the  single-heartedness  of  the  child,  and 
the  iron  strength  of  one  of  those  Demi-Gods  of  ancient  story.  His  mind 
was  susceptible  of  the  most  delicate  shades  of  impression;  the  ten  thousand 
voices  of  external  nature  were  intelligible  to  his  dreaming  soul ;  he  found 
connecting  links  between  this  world  and  the  other,  in  the  innumerable 
forms  of  creation ;  as  well  in  the  humblest  plant  or  flower,  as  in  the  lone 
majesty  of  the  silent  stars. 

It  will  also  be  remembered,  that  the  supernatural  part  of  this  work,  or 
that  which  appears  supernatural,  and  which  in  some  cases  we  have  en- 
deavored to  explain,  does  not,  in  the  Original  Records  of  Paul  Ardenheim's 
life,  admit  of  doubt  or  speculation.  The  author  of  those  Records  believes 
in  all  that  partakes  of  the  Supernatural.  He  sees  nothing  improbable  in 
a  direct,  continual  and  intelligible  communication  between  this  world  and 
the  Spiritual  World,  between  disembodied  Spirits  and  actual  men  and 
women. 

He  beholds  in  Paul  Ardenheim,  not  so  much  a  Man,  born  to  eat,  drink, 
sleep,  toil  and  die  like  the  herd  of  mankind,  as  a  Spirit  from  the  Other 
World,  embodied  in  human  form,  and  sent  hither  to  work  out  a  strangely 
terrible  Destiny. 

Perchance — (this  is  the  language  of  the  Ancient  MSS.) — the  Spirit  of 
some  great  Man,  who  lived  in  far  distant  ages  of  the  world,  returned  to 
earth  again  in  the  body  of  Paul  Ardenheim. 

Even  while  we  smile  at  what  we  esteem  the  Credulity  of  this  Writer 
of  the  Original  Records,  and  treat  all  supernatural  appearances,  and  the 
long  train  of  thoughts  which  they  involve,  as  idle  delusions — vainer, 
indeed,  than  a  Lawyer's  honesty,  or  a  Priest's  sincerity — we  must  also 
remember,  the  Punishment  of  Witchcraft  forms  a  part  of  that  which 
Blackstone  calls  the  perfection  of  human  reason,  the  English  Common 
Law.  That  Lord  Bacon  believed  in  Witches,  and  in  Wizard  Craft ; 
that  Sir  Matthew  Hale,  arrayed  in  the  pomp  of  his  solemn  office, 


I 


348  PAUL  ARDENHEIM,  OR, 

sentenced  «•  Witches"  to  death.  That  New  England  was  deluged  with 
blood  in  a  war,  waged  by  its  Priests  against  Witches,  Wizards,  and  Devils 
embodied  in  human  form.  That  Cotton  Mather,  the  author  of  the  Mag- 
nolia, — a  Son  of  the  School  of  Calvin,  worthy  of  his  Master — held  the 
belief  in  Witches,  Spirits,  and  Apparitions,  much  dearer  than  he  held  the 
"Love  one  another"  of  the  Divine  Redeemer. 

Indeed,  it  will  be  hard  for  us  to  find  a  man  at  all  distinguished,  who  is 
not  controlled  in  his  greatest  actions,  by  some  form  of  belief,  which 
teaches  the  direct  communication  between  this  world  and  the  next. 

Even  Napoleon  believed  in  his  Destiny  embodied  in  a  Star. 

Paul  after  a  pause  of  dreamy  thought,  hurried  through  the  clover  field 
toward  the  wood,  whose  shadows  embosomed  the  Wissahikon. 

"  Ah — I  remember  it  well  !"  he  cried,  as  some  memory  crossed^  his 
mind — "  That  spring  which,  half-way  down  the  hill,  bubbles  up  from  the 
rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  chesnut  tree.  This  path  leads  near  it,  and 
without  pausing  for  a  moment,  I  may  look  upon  it  once  again,  and  think 
of  other  days." 

He  had  reached  the  verge  of  the  clover  field.  Springing  over  the  zig- 
zag fence,  he  hurried  along  the  firm  sod,  and  presently  entered  the  shadow 
of  the  woods  again.  The  murmur  of  the  Wissahikon  was  heard  once 
more,  filling  the  air  with  a  low-toned  and  indistinct  melody. 

"  The  clump  of  chesnut  trees  is  yonder.  Already  I  behold  the  foliage, 
varied  with  pale  golden  blossoms.  Beside  that  spring,  at  the  foot  of  the 
chesnut  trees,  I  spent  many  a  happy  hour  in  those  days  that  can  never 
come  back  again.  Oh,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  Soul  drank  peace,  while 
the  lips  are  moistened  by  that  clear,  cold  water,  fresh  and  virgin  from  the 
caverns  of  Old  Earth  !" 

Hurrying  onward  with  renewed  haste,  Paul  presently  stood  under  the 
branches  of  the  chesnut  trees.  Four  hardy  trees  they  were,  starting  from 
the  sod  together,  their  joined  trunks  looking  like  one  great  column,  and 
their  foliage  meeting  overhead  in  one  impenetrable  canopy. 

At  the  foot  of  these  trees,  from  a  hollow  in  the  rock,  bubbled  forth  a 
limpid  spring,  with  a  wild  flower  or  two  bending  over  it,  like  maidens  sur- 
veying their  faces  in  a  mirror.  A  level  space  of  green  sod  spread  for 
some  paces  around  the  spring,  encircled  by  the  thickly  grown  shrubbery 
as  by  a  wall.  It  was  all  the  same  as  in  other  days  —  the  rock  in  whose 
hollow  lay  the  clear  water, — the  flowers  around — the  level  space  carpeted 
with  moss  —  and  the  foliage  which  formed  the  walls  and  canopy  of  this 
wild  forest  bower. 

But  Paul  had  no  time  to  gaze  upon  the  flowers,  no  time  to  drink  from 
the  spring,  for  the  sun  was  setting,  and  Reginald  waiting  for  him  beneath 
the  Blasted  Pine. 

With  a  glance,  he  turned  away, — 

"At  last  you  have  come  !"  said  a  voice. 


I 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  349 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIRST. 

THE  INDIAN  SPRING  OF  WISSAHIKON. 

Paul  started  at  the- sound,  and  turned  once  more  toward  the  spring. 
"  I  have  waited  for  you.  It  is  the  appointed  hour."  Again  he  heard  the 
voice. 

And  the  figure  of  a  man  advanced  from  the  shadows  of  the  forest  bower. 

"Waited  for  me  ?"  echoed  Paul,  gazing  upon  the  figure, of  the  speaker 
in  undisguised  wonder 

Beside  the  spring  stood  a  man  of  slender  frame,  and  pale  features  lighted 
by  large  gray  eyes.  He  was  clad  in  brown  velvet,  with  ruffles  on  his 
breast  and  about  his  colorless  hands,  diamond  buckles  on  his  knees  and 
shoes.  Paul  looked  at  his  pale  face,  and  thought  him  sixty  years  of  age  ; 
but  when  he  caught  the  clear  light  of  his  eyes, — which  now  softened  into 
azure,  and  now  deepened  into  dark  gray — he  could  not  imagine,  for  an 
instant,  that  the  unknown  was  more  than  forty  years  old.  Around  his 
forehead  floated  waving  locks  of  pale  golden  hair,  which  seemed  golden 
indeed,  in  the  rays  of  the  sun,  but  in  the  shadow,  appeared  touched  with 
the  frosts  of  age. 

The  appearance  of  this  man  struck  the  mind  of  Paul,  at  once,  with  a 
deep  and  peculiar  interest.  He  was  attired  like  a  man  of  rank  and  sta- 
tion; his  form  was  slender,  but  unbent  with  years;  there  was  a  singular 
sadness  upon  his  features,  a  strange  light  in  his  eyes. 

"  Where  have  I  seen  that  face  before  ?"  thought  Paul. 

"  Yes,  you  are  the  one  who  was  to  come]'  said  that  singularly  mild 
voice,  which  had  arrested  the  steps  of  Paul.  "Attired  in  black,  a  dress 
such  as  is  worn  by  the  students  of  Heidelberg,  a  cap  with  a  waving  plume. 
Every  thing  is  just  as  it  was  described  to  me.  Not  only  the  dress,  but  the 
face.  A  face  of  bronze,  lighted  by  eyes  that  are  full  of  inspiration  and 
prophecy  !" 

As  he  spoke,  gazing  into  the  face  of  Paul,  he  extended  his  hand.  Paul 
took  that  pale,  thin  hand,  and,  unable  to  speak  or  move,  shuddered  as  though 
he  had  encountered  the  hand  of  the  dead. 

"Where  have  I  seen  that  face  ?"  the  question  again  crossed  his  mind — 

"  Was  it  among  the  solitudes  of  the  Hartz  mountains.  No  !    no  !  But 

I  have  seen  it  before — I  know  not  where! 

"  You  have  waited  for  me  ?"  he  said  aloud,  still  pressing  the  stranger's 
hand. 

"  I  have  waited  for  you,"  calmly  replied  the  unknown,  smoothing  his 
waving  hair  aside  from  his  forehead.  "  iAt  the  Indian  Spring  of  Wissahi- 


350  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

Icon,  on  the  last  day  of  the  second  week  in  June,  at  the  hour  of  sunset, 
you  will  behold  the  ma?i  who  is  destined  to  aid  you  in  the  Good  Work.'' 
These  words  were  spoken  to  me  in  a  distant  land,  far  over  the  ocean,  two 
months  ago.    But  I  believed — and  am  here." 

It  seemed  to  Paul  that  he  could  not  have  spoken,  had  the  salvation  of 
his  soul  hung  on  a  word. 

"  I  have  seen  that  face  before  !"  again  the  thought  flashed  over  his 
bewildered  soul. 

ulHe  ivill  be  clad  in  black;  he  will  wear  the  dress  of  a  Heidelberg 
student,  and  on  his  forehead  a  cap  with  a  waving  plume.'' ,: 

Paul  dropped  the  hand  of  the  unknown,  and  started  back  a  single  step. 

"These  were  the  words  which  I  heard  two  months  ago,  in  a  far  distant 
land  ;"  continued  the  unknown.  "  Your  dress  was  described  to  me,  and 
more  than  this,  your  face.  *A  face  of  bronze,  lighted  by  eyes  that  are  full 
of  inspiration  and  prophecy.'' — You  are,  in  truth,  the  man  whom  I  seek. 
You  are  destined  to  aid  me  in  the  good  work." 

"The  good  work !"  echoed  Paul,  in  a  whisper. 

And  he  looked  first  upon  the  face  of  the  unknown,  then  upon  the  spring, 
the  trees,  the  flowers,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  not  bewildered 
in  a  dream. 

"I  have  seen  that  face  before,"  again  the  thought  came — "but  it  was 
older  when  I  saw  it  last.  It  was  covered  with  wrinkles,  the  eyes  were 
dim,  and  the  head  bowed  on  the  breast." 

"  Ah,  you  doubt  me,"  said  the  unknown,  with  a  smile,  which  played 
over  his  features,  cold  and  impassible  as  moonlight  over  snow — "  Then 
listen  to  another  proof.  *  This  man,  whom  you  ivill  meet  by  the  Indian 
Spring,  has,  like  yourself,  a  great  mission  to  fulfil — '  " 

Paul  interrupted  him  with  an  incoherent  ejaculation. 

— "  1  But  his  great  mission  and  your  good  work  are  one.''  " 

The  spring,  the  trees  and  flowers,  the  pale  face  of  the  stranger,  ah 
seemed  whirling  in  mad  confusion,  before  the  eyes  of  Paul. 

" ' But  in  order  to  satisfy  your  mind,  and  know  that  he  is  indeed  the 
man  whom  you  seek,''  those  were  a  part  of  the  words  uttered  to  me,  two 
months  ago — '  you  will  address  him  in  the  language  of  tlie  ancient  seers. 
You  will  ask  him — '  " 

He  paused,  and  watched  the  changing  face  of  Paul,  which  was  pale  and 
red  by  turns,  with  a  scrutinizing  glance. 

"  You  will  ask  him,"  exclaimed  Paul,  unconsciously  echoing  the  words. 

" 4  You  will  ask  hint  whether  he  looks  forward  with  hope  to  the  time 
when  the  Lead  shall  become  Gold,  and  the  Sneer  be  changed  into  a 
Smile:  " 

«  Ah — thou  art  of  the  Brotherhood  !"  exclaimed  Paul,  his  face  flushing 
with  overwhelming  joy — "  Thou  art  sent  to  me  to  reveal  the  deeper 
mysteries  of  the  good  work — " 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  351 

And  he  seized  the  small,  bony  handftf  the  unknown,  and  pressed  it  to 
his  heart. 

"  Said  I  not  so  ?  You  have  a  great  mission — I,  a  good  work.  But 
your  mission  and  my  work  are  one.  But  why  need  we  exchange  signs 
and  watchwords  with  each  other — " 

"  Signs  and  watchwords  !"  echoed  Paul,  his  mind  reverting  to  the  Bro- 
therhood of  the  Rosy  Cross. 

"Are  we  not  of  one  Brotherhood?  Yea,  in  your  eye  I  behold  the  pro- 
phetic fire — your  hand  is  destined  for  the  holy  deed  !" 

And  then  taking  Paul  by  the  hand,  he  led  him  to  the  spring,  and  said — 
"Let  us  sit  beside  each  other,  and  converse  about  the  holy  work." 

The  memory  of  Reginald,  and  the  meeting  by  the  blasted  pine,  had 
passed  from  the  mind  of  Paul.  He  was  wrapt  in  the  unknown.  He 
could  have  listened  for  ever  to  his  low,  musical  voice,  and  gazed  for  ever 
upon  his  pale  face,  which,  in  the  passing  ray,  seemed  touched  with  fire 
from  Heaven. 

"  Who  was  it,"  he  asked,  as  they  sat  down  together  on  a  rock  near  the 
spring,  "  that  spoke  to  you,  and  bade  you  expect  me  at  this  hour?' 

"  Who  ?"  echoed  the  unknown,  his  features  suddenly  clouded.  "Are  you 
of  the  Brotherhood,  and  yet  ask  his  name  ?  Who,"  he  continued,  in  a  tone 
of  singular  emphasis,  as  he  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand—"  Who  but  the 
mightiest  of  the  fallen?" 

That  pale  face,  with  the  light  gleaming  on  the  forehead,  while  the  eyes 
shone  brightly  beneath  the  thin  hand,  impressed  Paul  Ardenheim  with 
indefinable  awe. 

"  The  mightiest  of  the  fallen  ?"  he  echoed. 

"  Yea,  the  first  of  the  Seven  who  watched  around  the  Throne  before 
they  fell,"  exclaimed  the  unknown,  his  voice  sinking  with  every  word  — 
"  That  Spirit,  so  powerful  in  his  very  desolation,  so  grand  in  his  ruin,  whom 
men  call  by  various  names,  Astaroth — Lucifer — " 

"  Satan!"  whispered  Paul,  with  a  shudder,  as  he  shrank  from  the  touch 
of  the  stranger. 

As  he  spoke,  the  forest  nook  seemed  to  grow  more  breathlessly  still  —  a 
ray  of  sunshine  lingered  on  the  brow  of  the  stranger. 

"And  do  you  shudder  at  that  name  ?  Are  you  also  bewildered  by  the 
fears  of  beldame  Superstition  ?  Have  you  not  yet  beheld  that  awful 
Being,  clad  in  the  majesty  of  a  Mind,  that  feared  not  to  battle  with  Omni- 
potence, and  did  not  despair  when  all  but  Eternity  was  lost  to  him  ?  Not 
the  vulgar  image  conjured  up  by  Priests  and  Fatalists,  embodied  in  the  form 
of  an  ancient  satyr,  with  obscene  body  and  grotesque  hoof  and  horns. 
No  !  But  the  awful  Spirit  himself,  standing,  with  his  immortal  face  and 
eloquent  eyes,  before  the  vision  of  all  mortals,  who  would  grasp  his  im- 
mortality even  at  the  price  of  his  despair." 


352  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

The  features  of  the  unknown  ^ere  violently  agitated;  his  eyes,  chang- 
ing to  deep  gray,  flashed  like  lighted  coals. 

"Ah— I  have  seen  that  look  before!"  half-muttered  Paul,  while  the 
blood  congealed  in  his  veins,  as  the  vague  memory  rushed  upon  him. 

"Yea — it  was  Satan,  who,  two  months  ago,  in  a  foreign  land,  came  to 
me,  as  I  stood  at  noon-day  by  the  shore  of  a  dreary  lake.  It  was  Satan 
that  bade  me  come  to  Wissahikon,  and  expect  you  beside  this  spring. 
Nay,  two  years  and  more  ago,  on  that  well-remembered  night — " 

Paul  echoed  the  words,  he  knew  not  why,  and  felt  the  moisture  start 
upon  his  forehead. 

"  On  that  well-remembered  night,  he  came  to  me  as  I  stood  amid  the  ruins 
of  a  Thought,  which  had  been  struggling  into  birth  for  twenty-one  years  ; 
he  came,  1  say,  and  bade  me  take  a  drop  of  blood  from  the  heart  of  a 
tempted  but  sinless  maiden. 

"'Do  this,'  he  said,  'and  you  are  immortal.  The  boon  for  which  the 
ancient  sages  sighed,  the  boon  which  the  mass  of  mankind  deem  an  idle 
fancy,  is  in  your  grasp.'  I  obeyed.  I  sought  the  tempted  birt  sinless 
maiden,  I  placed  her  unconscious  form  before  the  altar,  in  which  the  liquid 
of  immortal  life  was  struggling  into  maturity." 

"  And  you  killed  her  ?"  cried  Paul.  "  This  tempted  but  sinless  maiden  ? 
Lured  by  the  dream  of  immortal  life  on  earth,  you  killed  a  defenceless 
woman,  killed  in  cold  blood  that  which  should  have  been  sacred  in  the 
eyes  of  a  devil." 

The  features  of  the  unknown  became  horribly  distorted. 

"  No  !  She  disappeared,  even  from  the  light  of  the  altar.  I  left  that  cell, 
in  which  I  had  toiled  for  twenty-one  years,  for  a  moment  only.  When  I 
returned,  she  was  gone.  I  searched  each  chamber  of  my  mansion — in 
vain,  in  vain  !  And  then,  as  if  to  crush  my  despair  into  a  despair  still  deeper 
and  more  terrible,  I  discovered  that  the  last  wreck  of  my  wealth,  the  frag- 
ment of  the  millions  which  I  had  expended  in  this  search,  was  gone.  It 
was  but  a  thousand  pieces  of  gold,  and  yet  it  was  all — " 

He  paused  an  instant.  Paul  could  not  turn  his  eyes  away  from  his  face. 
In  a  moment  he  seemed  to  grow  older;  his  face  became  wrinkled,  his  eye 
vacant  and  dim. 

"  Ah  !  It  was  here,  in  the  woods  of  Wissahikon,  that  I  saw  you,  in 
other  days  !"  he  exclaimed. 

But  the  unknown  did  not  heed  his  words. 

"Imagine  my  despair,"  he  said,  in  a  whispering  tone,  which  made  the 
blood  run  cold  in  the  veins  of  Paul.  "  My  gold  was  gone — gone  the  body 
of  that  sinless  maiden,  whose  heart  contained  the  drop  of  blood,  which 
would  have  infused  immortal  life  into  my  withered  veins.  Yet  even  in 
this  moment  I  heard  a  cry, — I  rushed  from  my  cell — I  beheld  the  maiden 
who,  but  a  few  moments  before,  lay  a  corpse  beside  my  altar.  She  lived 
— there  was  bloom  on  her  cheek — life  in  her  young  eyes — " 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  353 
"And  thou  didst  murder  " 

"As  I  sprang  forward  to  grasp  her  form,  I  heard  his  voice.    That  sad, 
terrible  tone,  which  speaks  words  of  deathless  knowledge — " 
"  The  voice  of  Satan  ?"  cried  Paul. 

"  The  voice  of  Satan.  He  bade  me  leave  the  maiden.  « Hasten  to  your 
cell.  Ere  an  hour  is  passed,  thy  desires  will  be  gratified.''  I  obeyed.  1 
waited — waited,  sinking  my  nails  into  my  flesh,  with  the  mad  infatuation 
which  possessed  me  in  that  weary  hour.  At  last  it  was  over.  The  door 
of  my  cell  opened — I  uttered  a  cry  of  disappointment,  as  I  beheld  in  the 
doorway  the  form  of  a  poor  Idiot,  whom  I  sheltered  in  m'r  house,  in  pity 
for  his  weakness  and  deformity — " 

An  ejaculation  burst  from  the  lips  of  Paul. 

"The  Idiot  approached.  'Master,'  he  said — not  in  these  words,  it  may 
be,  but  this  was  their  meaning — 'A  dark  man  bade  me  kill  the  girl.  It  is 
done,  and  here  is  what  thou  dost  desire.'  He  placed  in  my  hands  a  phial; 
it  was  filled  with  a  red  liquid — " 

"  The  blood  of  the  murdered  girl — "  exclaimed  Paul. 

"  One  drop,  one  only,  I  mingled  with  the  liquid  which  was  concealed 
within  the  altar  of  my  thought.  The  work  was  done.  The  Water  of 
Life  was  mine.  Ere  the  day  had  broken  upon  that  terrible  night,  I  drank 
— I  become  young  again.  Yes,  I,  the  withered  old  man,  with  the  weight 
of  years  upon  my  brow,  I  felt  my  blood  bound  with  new  life.  The 
wrinkles  vanished  from  my  brow,  the  film  of  age  from  my  eyes — " 

"And  the  murdered  maiden  — "  whispered  Paul,  as  the  last  rays  of  sun- 
light shot  through  the  gloom  of  the  place. 

"The  deformed  Idiot  buried  her.  I  knew  not,  cared  not  where.  What 
was  the  sacrifice  of  one  poor  life  to  the  accomplishment  of  my  thought?" 

And  his  thin  lips  curved  with  scorn,  while  a  satanic  rapture  shone  from 
his  eyes. 

To  say  that  Paul  Ardenheim  listened  to  the  Revelation  of  this  unknown 
man  with  horror,  with  an  awe  too  deep  for  words,  would  but  imperfeetlv 
convey  the  truth.  He  was  without  the  power  of  motion;  the  eyes  of  the 
stranger  enchained  him  with  an  indescribable  fascination.  And  the  ray 
of  sunshine,  stealing  into  the  gloom  of  the  nook,  the  profound  solitude,  un- 
disturbed by  a  sound,  only  served  to  deepen  this  fascination. 

"A  deformed  Idiot  I"  murmured  Paul,  as  that  confused  memory  began 
to  struggle  into  shape.      *  i 

"  The  secret  of  immortal  life  was  mine,  and  with  it  the  power  of  bound- 
less gold  !  Doth  it  not  turn  thy  heart,  young  man  ?  Thine  eye  shines 
with  the  Prophecy  of  a  great  deed,  thou  art  formed  to  conquer  all  difficul- 
ties. With  thee,  in  truth,  '  Will  the  Lead  become  Gold,  and  the  Sneer  be 
thanged  into  a  Smiled  But  what  are  all  thy  conquests,  when  death  may 
elaim  thee  any  moment,  even  in  the  glow  of  thy  best  hopes  ?    What  are 

23 


354 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


all  thy  plans,  when  the  greatest  of  them  all  is  sure  to  terminate  the  same 
as  the  wish  of  the  humblest  born — at  the  grave  ?" 

Paul  was  silent;  a  multitude  of  thoughts  oppressed  his  soul,  as  the  words 
of  the  stranger  penetrated  his  ears. 

"  Would  immortal  life  aid  thy  plans  ?  I  know  not  what  they  are,  care 
not  how  sublime  the  mission  which  you  cherish, — it  may  mount  to  Hea- 
ven, but  it  is  certain  to  be  buried  in  your  grave.  Speak !  have  you  ever 
thought — not  dreamed, — but  thought  in  plain,  palpable,  every-day  medita- 
tion, of  living  for  ever,  even  on  this  earth?" 

"  We  may  live  upon  the  tongues  of  millions,  when  our  bones  are  dust — " 
cried  Paul. 

"  A  sound — emptier  than  air !  What  is  the  fame  of  Homer  ?  Ha  !  ha ! 
There  are  learned  men  who  can  prove  to  you  that  Homer  never  lived 
Or,  even  the  English  poet,  Shakspeare.  The  millions  praise  him,  but 
what  care  they  for  his  actual  life?  Little  thought  have  they  of  his 
hours  of  hunger,  suffering,  and  despair:  now  writhing  under  the  rich 
man's  contempt,  now  crouching  at  the  door  of  that  Lord,  eager  to  gain  a 
crust,  in  exchange  for  his  immortal  thoughts.  But  could  Shakspeare 
live  for  ever  on  this  earth,  walking  on  through  all  ages,  freed  from  the  curse 
of  death,  growing  mightier  in  intellect  with  every  year,  and  asserting  his 
own  grandeur  in  the  face  of  all  time — what  say  you  to  this,  my  friend  ? 

"  One  living  Shakspeare  were  worth  all  the  dead  bones  of  Stratford  or 
Avon,  multiplied  by  millions." 

"There  is  a  destiny  before  me,"  cried  Paul,  "  which  death  itself  cannot 
wither  or  destroy.  It  is  my  fate,  not  to  mingle  with  the  mass  of  mankind, 
and  share  in  their  feverish  strife,  but  to  guard  the  Deliverer  of  this  land, 
to  defend  him  while  he  does  right,  to  sacrifice  him  the  moment  he  betrays 
his  trust." 

"Does  your  mission,  then,  assume  that  form?"  exclaimed  the  unknown, 
while  a  smile  stole  over  his  features,  and  he  looked  young  again — "You  look 
for  a  Deliverer  of  this  land,  a  benefactor  of  the  human  race.  Is  it  so  ? 
You  will  defend  him  while  he  does  right,  and  sacrifice  him  when  he  be- 
trays his  trust.  It  is  well.  But  suppose  the  hand  of  Death  cuts  you  oft' 
ere  your  work  is  half-done  !" 

"  Death,"  exclaimed  Paul,  with  the  prophecy  of  a  great  destiny  lighting 
up  his  eyes,  "  Death  cannot  strike  me,  until  my  mission  is  fulfilled." 

"  Let  us  imagine  that  your  work  is  done.  You  behold  the  Deliverer 
standing  among  the  monuments  of  a  liberated  Nation.  He  has  proved 
faithful  to  his  trust.  Your  Avork,  I  say,  is  done.  You  die.  After  your 
bones  are  dust,  this  Deliverer  becomes  a  tyrant,  this  land  his  property, 
the  people  his  slaves.  How  then,  my  young  friend  ?  Where  is  the  end 
of  all  your  great  thoughts  ?" 

"  But  God  is  above  all,"  whispered  Paul,  as  a  shade  of  profound  me- 
lancholy came  over  his  face. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


355 


The  shadows  grew  darker.  The  last  ray  of  sunlight  was  gone. 
Through  the  vague  gloom,  the  cold  water  in  the  rock  glowed  with  a 
faint  ray.  It  was  the  image  of  a  star,  which  shone  from  the  blue  heaven, 
through  an  interval  of  the  leaves. 

Paul,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  was  absorbed  in  thought. 

"  But  instead  of  Death,  let  us  picture  life,—"  he  heard  the  whispering 
voice  of  the  unknown  through  the  gloom.  "  Let  us  admit  that  the  New 
World  is  destined  to  become  the  theatre  of  great  deeds,  the  land  of  demi- 
gods, the  domain  of  regenerated  millions.  I  will  even  confess  that  such 
thoughts  have  visited  my  dreams  !  Well — you,  the  guardian  of  the  De- 
liverer, do  not  die ;  your  work  does  not  end  with  a  brief  score  of  years. 
You  live ;  you  become  the  Guardian,  not  of  one  man,  but  of  a  People ; 
your  life  keeps  pace  with  their  glory,  and  your  deathless  arm  turns  aside 
the  evils  which  menace  their  freedom. 

"  Five  hundred  years  from  this  hour,  you  may  stand  upon  this  spot, 
and  behold,  not  a  wild  desert  of  crag  and  forest,  but  a  great  temple,  reared 
without  the  aid  of  one  enslaved  arm,  but  reared  by  freemen,  and  dedicated 
to  the  Brotherhood  of  Man  !" 

That  word  struck  a  hidden  chord  in  the  heart  of  Paul. 

"  You  are,  then,"  he  said,  gazing  upon  that  face,  which  was  rendered 
more  impressive  by  the  twilight  gloom,  "a  Brother  of  the  Rosy  Cross?" 

"A  Brother  of  the  Rosy  Cross  ?"  echoed  the  unknown. 

"  Yes — a  Brother  of  that  vast  Brotherhood,  whose  history  stretches 
back  into  the  daybreak  of  the  world,  and  whose  girdle  of  union  encircles 
the  globe." 

Still  the  unknown  murmured,  with  a  vacant  accent, 
"  The  Rosy  Cross  ?" 

"  Did  you  not  speak  of  the  blessed  day  when  the  Lead  should  become 
Gold,  and  the  Sneer  be  changed  into  a  Smile  ?" 

"It  was  the  language  of  the  Ancient  Seers,  who,  like  me,  pursued  the 
great  secret  of  eternal  youth,"  said  the  unknown,  and  then  added  in  a 
whisper — "  The  Rosy  Cross  !  Do  you  speak  of  that  order  so  often  spoken 
of  in  history,  but  never  described  —  the  Rosicrucians  ?" 

"  Even  so,"  whispered  Paul. 

"  Know  then  that  the  Founder  of  the  Order,  Rosencrux  himself,  who 
gave  it  name,  was  a  Seeker  after  the  Great  Secret.  Nay — 'tis  said  that 
he  died  in  possession  of  the  secret,  and  embodied  it  in  a  book,  known  in 
olden  tradition  as  the  Book  of  the  Rosy  Cross." 

Paul  felt  his  heart  swell,  while  his  blood  leaped  in  his  veins.  Still  dis- 
guising his  joy,  he  glanced  around  the  covert — looked  into  the  face  of 
the  unknown — and  said  calmly  : 

"  You  are  mistaken,  my  friend.  Rosencrux  was  born  some  three  thou- 
sand years  after  the  foundation  of  the  Order.    Therefore  it  could  not 


356 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


Have  taken  its  name  from  him  ;  as  well  might  we  suppose  St.  Peter  to  have 
taken  his  name  from  the  great  Church  erected  to  his  memory,  at  Rome." 
He  paused :  the  unknown  did  not  reply. 

"  Ah,"  whispered  Paul,  "  The  Book  of  the  Rosy  Cross  !  Could  I  but 

obtain  it  the  Manuscript  of  Brother  Anselm  spoke  of  a  day  when 

man  might  become  immortal  !" 

And,  like  a  new  world,  unclosing  its  shores  and  meadows,  its  woods  and 
mountains  to  the  eyes  of  a  Discoverer,  widening  every  moment,  and 
revealing  new  beauties  as  it  expanded  on  the  view,  that  Thought  dilated 
before  the  Soul  of  Paul  Ardenheim. 

Immortal  life  on  earth  !  Youth  that  cannot  wither — Hope  that  cannot 
die! 

He  rose  and  paced  the  sod,  while  the  unknown  rested  his  cheeks  be- 
tween his  hands,  and  gazed  upon  the  bronzed  face,  which  every  moment 
revealed  new  emotions. 

44  You  drank  the  draught  of  eternal  youth — "  said  Paul,  his  mind  still 
dwelling  upon  the  Prophecy  embraced  in  the  Manuscript  of  Anselm. 

44 1  drank,  and  on  the  instant  twenty  years  were  lifted  from  my  frame. 
For  you  will  remember  that  in  my  search  after  the  great  secret,  I  had 
grown  prematurely  old.  Though  but  sixty  years  of  age,  I  looked  and  felt 
at  least  seventy — had,  in  thought  and  care,  lived  an  hundred.  No  sooner 
had  the  liquid  passed  my  lips  than  I  felt  like  a  man  of  forty-eight  years  ; 
in  the  very  prime  of  mature  manhood." 

44  And  now — "  said  Paul,  still  pacing  to  and  fro. 

44  {  went  abroad.  With  renewed  youth,  came  the  secret  of  boundless 
gold.  I  arranged  magnificent  plans  for  my  new  Destiny — and — two 
months  ago,  he  appeared  to  me  again.  4  The  liquid  which  thou  didst 
drink  was  mingled,  in  some  degree,  with  immortal  essence,  but  not  alto- 
gether impregnated  with  its  spirit.  The  drop  from  the  maiden's  heart 
had  lost  a  portion  of  its  power,  ere  it  came  into  thy  possession.  Wouldst 
thou  live  an  hundred  years,  before  another  trial  of  thine  energy  is  de- 
manded? Then  rebuild  once  more  thy  furnace,  and  mingle  with  the 
liquid,  not  one  drop  merely,  but  three  drops,  each  taken  from  the  heart 
of  a  human  being,  who  is  beloved  to  idolatry  by  a  Child,  a  Father,  a  Lover 
or  a  Woman  !' 

44 1  heard  and  shuddered  before  the  Awful  Spirit,  who  appeared  to  me  at 
noonday  by  the  bank  of  a  dreary  lake. 
44  4  And  if  I  do  not  obey  ?' "  I  faltered. 

44  4  Then,'  said  the  Chief  of  the  Seven,  4  thy  life  is  near  its  close.  Thou 
didst  number  sixty  years  when  the  liquid  became  thine.  Sixty-two  years 
was  the  term  of  thy  natural  life.  The  draught,  imperfect  as  it  was,  lifted 
the  burden  of  many  years  from  thy  soul,  clad  thee  with  new  manhood, 
yet  it  could  not  increase  the  number  of  thy  years..    Thou  art  still  subject 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


357 


to  death  at  any  moment,  after  tlve  two  years  (counting  from  the  time  when 
the  draught  was  thine)  have  expired.''  " 

The  voice  of  the  speaker  faltered,  and  died  away  at  last  in  a  husky 
murmur. 

Startled  by  the  sudden  pause,  Paul  turned  abruptly,  and  even  through 
the  shadow,  saw  the  face  of  the  unknown,  frightfully  agitated  and  bathed 
in  tears. 

He  drew  nearer,  examining  the  distorted  countenance  with  an  earnest 
gaze. 

"  And  then — "  he  exclaimed,  bending  down,  as  if  to  hear  the  answer, 
but  in  reality,  to  gaze  more  closely  into  the  face  of  the  unknown. 
There  was  no  answer. 
Paul  started  back  with  a  shudder. 

"  He  has  grown  twenty  years  older  in  a  moment,"  the  thought  forced 
itself  upon  his  mind. 

*  And,  then  we  conversed  together,  concerning  the  great  secret,  the 
ways  of  life  and  death,  until  the  shadows  of  night  came  darkly  over  that 
lake,  which  was  gloomy  at  noonday." 

"  Thou  didst  converse  with  the  Fiend  ?"  cried  Paul,  starting  back  as 
he  felt  his  blood  chill. 

"  The  Fiend !  You  still  nourish  these  idle  superstitions  !  Fiend  ! 
Does  not  the  Religion  of  the  Church  make  of  him,  a  God  ;  second  only 
to  the  Divine  Source  of  Life  himself?  Not  with  the  Fiend,  young  sir,  but 
with  the  Friend.  Oh,  had  you  but  seen  the  dread  mystery  of  his  face,  or 
heard  the  bewildering  music  of  his  voice,  as  he  spoke  of  past  ages, 
ranging  all  centuries  and  races  before  my  face  !  At  last  he  bade  me 
return — " 

"  Return  ?"  said  Paul,  as  the  changed  face  of  the  unknown  brought 
back,  in  more  distinct  shape,  the  memory  of  other  days. 

"  Bade  me  return,  and  meet  you  here,"  continued  the  unknown  in  a 
faltering  voice.  "  kAt  the  Indian  Spring  of  Wissahikon,  on  the  last  day  of 
the  second  tveek  in  June,  you  will  behold  the  man  who  is  destined  to  aid 
you  in  the  Good  Work.  He  will  be  clad  in  black  ;  he  will  wear  the  dress 
of  a  Heidelberg  student,  and  on  his  forehead  a  cap  with  a  waving  plume. 
A  face  of  bronze,  and  an  eye  full  of  inspiration  and  prophecy.''  These 
were  the  words,  and  thou  canst  aid  me — " 

The  unknown  rose,  and  confronted  Paul  in  his  hurried  walk  to  and  fro. 
Thou,"  he  continued,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  face  of  the  Dreamer — 
"Thou,  and  thou  only.  Refuse— and  I  am  lost.  In  a  few  days  I  will  be 
dead.  My  secret  dies  with  me.  That  secrel  can  aid  thy  plans, — can 
change  the  mortal  into  the  deathless,  and  give  into  thy  hands  the  destiny 
of  ages—" 

'*  How  shall  I  aid  thee  ?"  cried  Paul — "  I  am  young.    Have  but  one 


358 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM ;  OR, 


friend  m  the  world.    I  am  poor — I  cannot  call  one  piece  of  gold  my 

own — " 

"  With  thy  brain,"  said  the  unknown  ;  "  with  thy  arm  !" 
His  tone  was  strangely  elevated.    He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  arm  of 
Paul,  who  shrunk  unconsciously  from  the  contact. 
»  My  arm  ?    My  brain  ?" 

'«  The  fire  is  lighted  in  my  altar.  The  liquid  which  is  to  impart  death- 
less youth,  already  hovers  above  the  flame.  To  mature  that  liquid  into 
the  immortal  essence,  I  demand — "  his  voice  fell,  and  the  hand  which 
touched  the  arm  of  Paul,  trembled  violently — "  three  drops  of  blood,  each 
taken  from  the  heart  of  a  human  being,  beloved  to  idolatry  by  a  Child,  a 
Father,  a  Lover,  or  a  Woman — '.' 

"  You  demand  of  me  three  human  lives  !"  cried  Paul,  falling  back, 
cold  and  horror-stricken. 

There  was  a  pause. 

The  star  sparkled  in  the  spring,  and  through  the  stillness  the  Wissa- 
hikon's  murmur  came  gently  up  the  hill. 

14  And  in  exchange  for  three  lives,  I  will  give  you  the  power  to  confer 
happiness  on  the  whole  human  family." 

The  voice  of  the  unknown  scarcely  rose  above  a  whisper. 

"  Three  murders  !"    Paul  spoke  with  an  accent  of  unfeigned  horror. 

"  Three  Sacrifices  offered  at  the  altar  of  Destiny,  in  exchange  for  the 
freedom  of  America, — the  Brotherhood  of  universal  man!" 

"  Three  blows  with  the  knife  or  sword  upon  the  images  of  God, 
enshrining  immortal  souls  !"  continued  Paul,  as  he  retreated  a  single  step 
from  the  unknown. 

"  Does  not  your  religion  teach  that '  without  the  shedding  of  blood  there 
is  no  remission  of  sins  V  Does  not  all  history  confirm  the  sentiment, 
and  build  it  up  into  a  Fact,  immovable  as  the  Universe  itself?  For  these 
three  lives— say  that  they  shall  be  the  lives  of  the  three  best  and  purest 
beings  on  the  face  of  earth — you  will  receive  the  Power  to  sweep  war, 
pestilence,  the  inequalities  of  condition,  the  imperfections  of  physical 
organization,  and  all  attendant  evils  from  the  world,  and  thus  bring  on  the 
day  of  Human  Brotherhood.  You  will  acquire  deathless  vigor  ;  and,  with 
your  brain,  to  live,  is  to  sway  mankind,  as  with  the  voice  of  a  God — " 

Paul  made  no  reply. 

"  This  Deliverer  whom  you  expect,  may  join  hands  with  Washington, 
the  Rebel  Leader,  and  thus  continue  for  many  years  the  war  with  the 
British  King." 

Still  Paul  did  not  answer. 
Let  me  make  a  rude  arithmetical  calculation  for  you.    War  in  every 
age  is  the  same.    Count  up  the  victims  slain  in  all  the  wars,  recorded  by 
history,  from  the  days  of  the  Patriarchs  down  to  the  present  hour.  Did 
you  ever  make  a  computation  like  this  ?    Let  every  man  who  has  been 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


359 


slain  in  battle  be  symbolized,  not  in  a  rock,  nor  in  a  leaf,  nor  even  in  a 
grain  of  sand,  but  in  an  atom  of  dust.  Well— count  up  the  living  souls, 
wlw  have  been  butchered  in  battle,  and  you  will  discover  that,  tite  surface 
of  the  globe,  to  the  depth  of  ten  feet,  might  be  covered  with  their  duut, — 
every  atom  of  dust  standing  in  place  of  a  Man." 

Paul  retreated  another  step — the  words  of  the  unknown  wrung  a  groan 
from  his  very  heart.  * 

"  Take  it  to  your  heart,  my  friend.  The  surface  of  the  world,  the 
crust  of  the  globe,  for  the  depth  of  ten  feet,  is  made  up  of  human  souls 
butchered  in  battle,  and  symbolized  in  atoms  of  dust." 

The  unknown  paused. 

"  This  has  been  War.    This  will  be  War  to  the  end  of  time." 
"You  reason  terribly,"  groaned  Paul, — "And  in  exchange  for  three 
murders — " 

"  Do  not  use  the  word.  Does  the  man  who  shoots  a  friend  in  a  duel, 
depriving  a  wife  of  her  husband,  and  children  of  their  father,  call  it  a 
murder  ?  Does  the  peasant  of  one  nation,  who  mounts  a  rampart,  and 
stabs  the  peasant  of  another  nation,  with  whom  he  has  had  no  quarrel,  say 
a  word  about  Murder  ?  Does  the  grave  Judge,  who  to-day  hangs  a  man 
in  cold  blood  for  doing  that  which  was  a  virtue  yesterday,  breathe  a 
whisper  of  Murder?" 

"  And  where,"  whispered  Paul,  his  pale  face  agitated  by  a  frightful 
smile, —  "and  where  shall  I  find  the  three  victims  ?" 

The  unknown  hesitated  a  moment  ere  he  replied. 

"  The  first  may  be  found  in  the  person  of  a  Man,  who  is  deeply  beloved 
by  a  Friend — " 

Paul  trembled  in  every  limb. 
"  The  second — "  he  gasped. 

"  The  second  1  Imagine  a  woman, — a  beautiful  woman,  for  example, 
who  is  idolized  by  a  Lover,  or  Husband — " 

Paul  sank  down,  on  one  knee,  near  the  brink  of  the  spring,  clasping  his 
hands  in  the  very  intensity  of  agony. 

"And  the  third — "  he  asked,  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"Take  the  most  beloved  object  that  the  world  ever  saw,"  cried  the 
unknown,  as  he  drew  near,  and  his  face  was  faintly  illumined  by  a  star — 
"Take  the  Father,—" 

"  Hold !"  shrieked  Paul,  starting  to  his  feet,  his  hands  clenched,  his 
bosom  swelling  with  the  throbs  of  his  heart. 

"  The  Father,"  said  the  unknown,  in  the  same  impassible  tone,  as  Paul 
trembled  before  him,  "  The  Father  whose  existence  is  blessed  by  the  love 
of  a  Child—" 

"No  more—"  and  Paul,  with  flashing  eyes,  and  set  teeth,  confronted 
the  unknown — "  On  peril  of  your  life,  no  more — " 

Without  seeming  to  notice  his  sudden  agitation,  or  the  deadly  light 


360  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

which  inflamed  his  eyes,  the  unknown  went  on,  in  his  calm,  measured 
tone : 

"  In  a  cause  like  this,  I  would  regard  as  nothing,  the  life  of  the  Man 
who  is  beloved  by  a  true  friend — or  of  the  Woman  who  is  idolized  by  the 
Husband  or  Lover — or  of  the  Father  whose  only  joy  is  in  the  love  of  his 
Child—" 

Paul  bent  forward,  and  as  his  hot  breath  swept  the  cheek  of  the 
unknown,  he  saw  his  face,  and  the  vague  memory  of  the  Past  was  vague 
no  longer. 

"  It  is  Isaac  Van  Behme,"  he  cried — "Her  Father — hers  !  Who  has 
made  a  compact  with  the  Fiend,  and  who  talks  of  murdering  the  Father, 
beloved  by  an  only  child !" 

And  with  that  word  he  turned  and  fled. 

Down  the  winding  path,  deep  into  the  thickets,  over  the  rocks  where 
there  was  most  darkness,  and  the  twilight  flung  its  profoundest  shadow, 
he  fled. 

He  did  not  pause  as  the  frenzied  cry  of  the  old  man  came  shrieking 
through  the  stillness  of  the  wood. 

He  heard  that  cry,  but  the  words  which  accompanied  it,  fell  dull  and 
cold  upon  his  ear. 

He  only  wished  to  fly  to  hide  himself  from  the  sight  of  the  Tempter's 
face,  to  hide  himself  from  the  fever  of  his  own  soul;  for  the  words  of  Isaac 
Van  Behme  had  summoned  up  again  the  Spectre  of  the  Sealed  Chamber, 
and  wrapt  him  once  more  in  the  flames  of  an  unrelenting  Remorse. 

He  fled. 

And  that  cry  came  through  the  stillness,  a  cry  deepened  and  prolonged 
as  by  the  agony  of  a  broken  heart. 

"  No  !  No !  She  is  dead,"  exclaimed  Paul,  as  he  plunged  through  the 
thickly  grown  bushes.  "A  man  who  has  stricken  from  his  heart  all  human 
ties,  cannot  own  a  Daughter's  love.    She  sleeps  in  the  grave." 

He  sprang  down  the  steep  side  of  a  dangerous  rock.  A  single  mis- 
placed step,  and  his  limbs  would  have  been  crushed,  his  brains  scattered 
against  the  rocks  below. 

But,  unconscious  of  any  danger,  save  that  which  encircled  him,  as  with 
a  girdle  of  flames — the  Memory  of  the  Sealed  Chamber — he  dashed  madly 
on  his  way. 

Had  a  host  of  armed  men  confronted  him  with  levelled  rifles,  and 
warned  him  back,  on  peril  of  a  bullet  from  every  muzzle,  he  still  would 
have  pursued  his  way,  and  rushed  upon  the  certain  death. 

For  he  was,  as  we  have  said,  unconscious  of  every  thing  in  the  world, 
save  the  Remorse  of  his  own  soul. 

The  Remorse  which  had  been  evoked  from  its  grave,  by  the  words  of 
Isaac  Van  Behme,  the  father  of  the  beautiful  woman,  who  had  tempted 
him  to  cross  the  threshold  of  the  Sealed  Chamber. 


1/ 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  361 

Plunging  through  the  thickets,  dashing  from  rock  to  rock,  now  sinking 
ankle  deep  in  the  marshy  bed  of  some  runlet,  now  thrusting,  with  a  fren- 
zied arm,  the  bending  limbs  aside,  he  soon  reached  the  shore  of  the  stream. 

It  lay  there,  in  the  bosom  of  the  mysterious  shadow,  beautiful  as  a  Bride, 
within  the  curtains  of  her  marriage  bed. 

And  this  marriage  couch  was  illumined  only  by  a  solitary  light— the 
first  star  that  came  smiling  out  upon  the  tremulous  canopy  of  the  heavens, 
whose  deep  blue  was  softened  into  pale  gold. 

He  did  not  heed  the  beautiful  Wissahikon,  trembling  so  softly  there,  at 
the  welcome  of  the  first  star,  but,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  he  gained  the 
opposite  shore,  and,  turning  his  face  to  the  west,  hurried  along  a  winding 
path,  which  now  led  far  up  into  the  dark  woods,  and  suddenly  came  down 
again  in  sight  of  the  wave  and  the  solitary  star. 

Nor  did  he  heed  the  thousand  voices  of  the  June  twilight,  which,  per- 
chance harsh  and  incongruous  in  themselves,  came  softened  by  distance, 
melting  like  heaven's  own  music  on  the  ear. 

The  rude  hymn  of  the  laborer,  gushing  from  the  unclosed  window  of 
a  hut,  fixed  upon  the  hill-side, — the  lowing  of  cattle,  grouped  by  the 
stream,  where  the  willows  bend  their  mournful  heads — the  voice  of  little 
children,  now  bursting  in  laughter,  now  sinking  in  murmurs — the  lullaby 
of  the  mother,  bending  over  the  couch  of  her  first-born, — the  chirp  of  a 
solitary  bird,  swinging  so  lonely  on  the  topmast  branch  of  a  tall  forest 
tree,  with  nothing  between  its  melody  and  heaven,  but  the  light  of  the 
solitary  star — these  sounds,  mingled  and  mellowed  into  one,  made  the 
music  of  the  June  twilight  on  the  Wissahikon. 

Believe  me,  it  was  a  music  that  might  have  pleased  your  ear  full  as 
well  as  the  trumpet  note  of  battle,  whose  pauses  are  filled  by  death- 
groans. 

For  that  music  said,  as  plainly  as  music  ever  could  say,  that  the  earth 
was  thankful  to  God  for  the  glad  June  day,  and  the  Wissahikon  full  of 
peace,  when  she  saw  her  own  star  shining  into  her  soul  again. 

Paul  did  not  hear  this  music  of  the  June  twilight ;  the  words  of  the  old 
man  were  ringing  in  his  ears.  He  did  not  see  the  Wissahikon,  smiling 
beneath  the  ray  of  the  first  star.  The  Indian  Spring  of  Wissahikon,  spark- 
ling so  tranquilly  in  its  bowl  of  rock,  as  it  mirrored  the  face  of  the  old 
man,  whose  pale  brow  shone  in  a  solitary  ray — this  was  the  only  sight 
which  he  saw,  as  he  plunged  blindly  onward,  now  in  the  darkness,  amid 
the  thickly-grown  brushwood,  now  by  the  water-side,  beneath  the  ray  of 
the  evening  star. 

There  came  a  dense  thicket,  without  one  gleam  to  light  up,  even  for  an 
instant,  its  impenetrable  shadow.  Through  its  darkness,  a  sluggish  rill, 
which  spread  among  tufts  of  marshy  grass,  and  made  the  earth  slippery 
and  difficult  to  tread,  sighed  slowly  onward,  with  a  low,  mournful 
murmur. 


362 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


Paul  entered  this  thicket,  and  fell  on  one  knee;  but,  starting  up  agai 
crossed  the  stream,  and  ascended  a  steep  hill,  overgrown  with  stunted 
pines.    As  if  guided  by  instinct,  he  never  for  a  moment  deviated  from  his 
course.    The  hill  ascended,  there  came  a  level  space,  overspread  with  lofty 
trees,  whose  massy  trunks  were  free  from  brushwood  or  foliage. 

A  white  object  glared  between  the  intervals  of  these  aged  trees,  with 
the  light  of  the  evening  star  playing  upon  its  ghostly  outlines. 

Paul  beheld  it,  and  murmured  the  name  of  Reginald,  his  Friend— his 
Brother.  Then  hurrying  through  the  trees,  he  beheld  the  white  object 
more  distinctly  ;  it  resolved  itself  into  distinct  shape,  even  as  it  stood  alone 
amid  the  foliage  and  the  twilight. 

It  was  the  Blasted  Pine. 

The  bark  had  long  ago  been  peeled  from  its  huge  trunk.    Its  rugg 
limbs,  stripped  of  every  thing  like  life  or  verdure,  stretched  themselves 
abruptly  into  the  blue  sky,  above  the  tops  of  the  living  trees.    Around  its 
trunk  the  grass  was  withered — it  stood  in  a  circle  of  dead  leaves,  whose 
decay  was  contrasted  with  the  moss  and  flowers  beyond. 

And  at  its  foot,  a  bleak  rock,  stamped  with  the  impress  of  a  human  foot 
beside  a  cloven  hoof,  was  dimly  revealed  in  the  ray  of  the  first  star. 

It  need  not  be  written,  that  this  desolate  tree,  standing  so  lonely  amid 
the  verdure  of  June,  was  connected  with  many  a  dark  tradition.  The  folk 
of  Wissahikon  regarded  it  with  superstitious  awe.  Brave  indeed  was  the 
man,  who  would  dare  to  linger  near  its  trunk  after  night-fall.  A  father 
had  been  slain  by  his  child  at  its  foot,  in  the  early  days  of  the  Colony — a 
Pirate  had  peen  murdered  there  by  his  comrades,  and  his  corse  buried 
beneath  the  leaves,  with  a  portion  of  their  ill-gotten  gold — an  Indian 
maiden  had  been  murdered  by  the  hand  of  her  white  lover — these,  and 
other  legends  of  similar  character,  gave  a  peculiar  horror  to  the  Blasted 
Pine. 

But  these  traditions  of  crime,  which  invested  the  tree  with  gloomy 
interest,  were  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  atmosphere  of  terror 
which  hovered  over  the  bleak  rock  at  its  foot.  The  human  foot  and  the 
cloven  hoof,  stamped  together  on  its  surface,  were  the  traces  left  by  the 
Enemy  of  Mankind,  in  ages  long  ago,  when  the  rock  itself  was  but  a  mass 
of  clay.  Even  now  he  was  wont  to  haunt  the  spot,  in  bodily  shape,  with 
the  fire  of  eternal  judgment  lighting  up  his  eyes,  and  the  mark  of  unre- 
lenting vengeance  stamped  upon  his  blasted  forehead. 

Sometimes  he  came  in  the  form  of  a  beautiful  woman,  who,  with  bril- 
liant eyes  and  flowing  hair,  tempted  the  belated  wanderer  to  barter  his 
immortal  soul  for  wealth  and  worldly  power. 

These  legends,  various  and  incongruous,  originated,  without  a  doubt,  in 
some  terrible  tragedy  of  every-day  life,  which  occurred  near  the  tree,  in 
long  distant  years. 

It  was  at  the  foot  of  this  desolate  tree,  upon  the  rock  stamped  with  the 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  363 

footprint  of  the  Fallen  Angel,  that  Paul  Ardenheim  stood,  and  saw  the 
Wissahikon  gleaming  from  afar. 

It  glimmered  through  an  opening  of  the  forest,  and  over  its  depths,  a 
space  of  blue  sky  was  seen,  blushing  with  soft  radiance,  as  the  twilight 
deepened  into  night. 

"Reginald!"  exclaimed  Paul,  as  he  stood  with  folded  arms,  and  head 
drooped  on  his  breast — "Where  art  thou  ? — Ah,  he  has  been  here,  he  has 
waited  for  me,  but  I  have  not  kept  my  word." 

He  was  silent,  for  the  memory  of  Reginald's  friendship  came  to  him, 
in  that  hour  of  chaotic  thought,  beautiful  as  a  solitary  ray,  shining  through 
the  rift  of  a  midnight  cloud. 

And  then  the  silence  of  the  spot,  unbroken  by  the  rustling  of  a  leaf, — 
the  gloom,  deepened  by  the  contrast  of  the  distant  stream  and  the  dark  blue 
sky — harmonized  with  his  thoughts,  and  brought  home  to  him  the  strange 
legends  of  the  Blasted  Pine 

A  vague  feeling — it  was  awe  without  terror — crept  over  him,  as  he 
saw  the  human  foot  and  the  cloven  hoof,  impressed  upon  the  rock  on 
which  he  stood. 

"  Here,  a  father  fell  by  the  hand  of  his  son — " 

These  words,  spoken  in  a  low  voice,  were  accompanied  by  a  shudder. 

"A  father  by  the  hand  of  his  son — "  he  repeated,  lingering  on  every 
word,  while  his  eye  gleamed  with  a  sombre  fire. 

"  Here,  the  gold  of  the  Pirate,  every  coin  purpled  with  the  blood  of 
women  and  children,  was  buried.  And  the  miserable  wretch  who  dug  the 
cavity  for  this  gold,  was  murdered  by  his  Chief,  even  as  he  stood  before 
this  rock,  with  the  spade  in  his  hand.  The  cavity  for  the  gold  became  the 
grave  of  the  still  quivering  corse.  *  Thy  Ghost  shall  haunt  the  place,  I 
trow,  and  guard  my  earnings,  until  I  return,''  said  the  Pirate,  as  he 
smoothed  the  earth  and  leaves  over  the  warm  corse  and  the  chest  of  gold. 
And  here,  an  Indian  maiden,  who  clung  to  her  white  lover's  neck,  and,  as 
she  spoke  of  her  unborn  child,  besought  him  to  take  her  with  him  to  his 
English  home,  and  let  her  dwell  with  him  for  ever,— here,  the  dark-haired 
Indian  girl  was  butchered  by  that  lover's  hand.  It  was  before  the  days 
of  William  Penn,  when  the  land,  now  swarming  with  the  white  race,  was 
only  trodden  by  a  few  hardy  Colonists,  when  Philadelphia  was  a  fores^ 
and  the  huts  of  Germantown  first  began  to  smile  in  the  wilderness.  And 
the  name  of  the  Indian  maid,  who  fell  at  the  foot  of  this  tree,  with  her 
unborn  babe  throbbing  in  her  mangled  form,  became  the  name  of  the 
wood-hidden  stream — Wissa-Hikone, — 'The  Lone  Flower  of  the  Spirit- 
Land.' 

"And  here,  the  Fallen  Angel,  when  this  rock  was  clay,  and  these  hills 
were  peopled  by  the  beings  of  the  antediluvian  world,  stamped  the  impress 
of  his  burning  feet,  as  he  was  whirled  onward  by  the  impulse  of  an  un- 
relenting vengeance. 


364  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

"  'Tis  said  that  he  comes  here  now,  at  dead  of  night,  filling  the  solitude 
with  the  accents  of  his  despair,  and,  disclosing  to  the  star-beam  that  livid 
forehead,  scarred  by  the  thunderbolt.  He  comes,  to  tempt  poor  humanjty 
to  its  ruin — so  the  traditions  of  the  rude  peasants  tell.  As  if  the  desola- 
tion of  his  own  awful  soul  could  be  cheered  by  the  perdition  of  souls,  in- 
ferior to  him  in  power  and  despair. 

"  And  then  he  often  comes  in  a  beautiful  form,  armed  with  the  glance 
that  maddens,  and  the  tone  that  bewitches — encircled  by  all  the  fascina- 
tions which  invest  a  lovely  woman. 

"  Ah—  there  is  in  truth  a  terrible  fact  embodied  in  this  wild  tradition. 
Satan,  clad  in  the  gloom  of  his  eternal  anguish,  can  only  strike  terror  into 
the  gazer's  heart.  But  Satan,  incarnate  in  the  form  of  a  lovely  woman, 
whose  glance  can  plunge  you  into  crime,  whose  low-whispering  voice  can 
make  your  heart  forget  its  God,  and  your  hand  commit  the  Unpardonable 
Sin  " 

He  covered  his  face,  for  the  memory  of  the  beautiful  woman,  who  had 
tempted  him  to  cross  the  threshold  of  the  Sealed  Chamber,  flashed  sudden- 
ly upon  his  soul. 

"  I  hear  her  voice  again.  Her  dark  hair,  tossed  by  the  winter  breeze, 
sweeps  over  my  forehead.  Her  touch  fills  my  veins  with  frenzy.  Through 
the  gloom  of  that  corridor  I  see  her  face,  flushed  with  passion — her  eyes, 
radiant  with  the  daring  of  a  soul  that  believes  not  in  God  or  in  the  Here- 
after, but  in  its  own  boundless  Pride,  dart  their  light  into  my  soul." 

"  She  is  before  me  again,"  he  cried,  raising  his  agitated  face,  and  spread- 
ing forth  his  arms.  "  Before  me  now — between  my  sight  and  the  blue  sky 
— beautiful  as  she  was  on  the  last  night  when  she  tempted  me  to  despair." 

At  this  moment,  his  convulsed  features  were  illumined  by  a  faint  and 
lurid  ray.  Above  the  dark  mass  of  the  western  woods,  appeared  a  cres- 
cent of  pale  gold,  distinctly  defined  against  the  deep  blue  sky. 

It  was  the  new  moon,  trembling  over  the  woods  of  Wissahikon,  like  a 
coronet  of  light,  shining  above  the  dark  hair  of  a  beautiful  woman. 

Her  beams  invested  the  face  of  nature  with  a  sad  and  sepulchral  ray. 
The  countenance  of  Paul  Ardenheim  looked  wan  and  ghostlike  in  that  pale 
azure  radiance. 

"But  she  is  dead,"  he  faltered — "Her  ashes  rest  beneath  the  sod — 
there  are  wild  flowers  above  her  grave." 

Was  it  the  rustling  of  a  leaf  that  trembled  gently  on  his  ear  ? 

That  faint  sound,  heard  for  an  instant  and  then  dying  without  an  echo, 
riveted  the  attention  of  Paul  Ardenheim,  he  knew  not  why. 

He  listened  with  fixed  intensity,  but  the  forest  was  still  as  a  tomb. 

And  then  once  more  there  came  a  sound.  Itseemed  like  a  distant  voice 
repeating  his  name.  "  Paul !"  he  heard — or  imagined  he  heard — that 
unknown  voice  speaking  his  name,  in  a  low  accent,  vague  and  tremulous 
as  the  murmur  of  a  rill. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


365 


Have  you  ever  started  from  a  half-waking  slumber,  at  the  sound  of  your 
name,  pronounced  by  a  voice  at  once  hollow  and  melodious  ? 
^  Have  you  felt  your  flesh  creep,  and  your  heart  grow  cold,  as  you  dis- 
covered that  the  word  was  not  spoken  by  human  lips,  but  either  by  some 
fancy  of  your  half-waking  meditation, — not  dream — or  by  an  actual  spirit 
from  the  other  world  ? 

Thus  it  was  with  Paul  Ardenheim,  as  he  heard — or  fancied  he  heard — 
a  voice,  at  once  hollow  and  melodious,  repeating  his  name. 

»  Paul !" 

This  time  Paul  heard  it  distinctly,  although  the  sound  was  low,  and 
faint,  and  far  away. 

Again  that  rustling  sound,  like  the  noise  produced  by  a  serpent  trailing 
over  withered  leaves. 

Then  occurred  an  incident  which  realized  the  supernatural  legends  of 
the  place. 

Upon  the  rock  stood  or  rather  trembled  Paul,  resting  one  hand  for  sup- 
port upon  the  trunk  of  the  Blasted  Pine,  for  he  was  faint  and  scarcely  able 
to  stand,  and  the  cold  moisture  started  from  his  forehead. 

The  rustling  sound  grew  louder  ;  again  the  voice  pronounced  his  name 
—  deeper  in  emphasis,  more  musical  in  cadence — and  a  white  object,  like 
a  mist  hovering  over  a  stream,  began  to  glimmer  through  the  trees. 

"It  is  Satan  !"  The  thought  crossed  the  mind  of  Paul,  but  he  could  not 
speak.  His  eyesight  grew  dim  ;  that  white  mist  was  whirling  before  his 
eyes  ;  it  seemed  to  wrap  him  in  its  folds. 

He  grew  cold,  he  trembled,  he  fell  on  one  knee,  and  in  the  act  of  falling 
raised  one  hand  toward  heaven. 

A  hand  glided  from  behind  the  withered  trunk,  and  then  an  arm,  fair 
and  beautiful  ;  the  hand  pressed  the  hand  of  Paul,  and  the  blood  bounded 
in  his  veins. 

No  more  damps  upon  the  brow,  no  more  ice  in  the  veins,  no  more  chill 
and  shuddering  awe. 

For  a  beautiful  face  was  gazing  upon  him;  a  moist  hand  was  pressing 
his  own;  waves  of  flowing  hair  swept  over  his  forehead,  and  the  voice, 
very  near,  this  time,  and  melodious  as  a  sound  from  Eden,  spoke  his  name, 
and  the  breath  which  framed  the  word,  fanned  his  cheek. 

That  which  he  had  imagined  a  mist,  was  the  white  robe  of  a  beautiful 
form.  The  sound  like  the  noise  produced  by  a  snake  trailing  over  wither- 
ed leaves,  was  the  gentle  tread  of  a  small  foot,  that  beat  the  earth  with  an 
impetuous  motion. 

Through  the  intervals  of  long  flowing  hair,  which,  in  the  gloom,  and  by 
the  sepulchral  light  of  the  moon,  seemed  of  more  than  midnight  blackness, 
— through  the  locks  of  that  streaming  hair,  he  saw  the  voluptuous  swell 
of  a  white  bosom,  rising  in  quick  pulsations  over  a  loosened  robe,  and  felt 
the  light  of  eyes  supernaturally  radiant,  flashing,  burning  into  his  soul. 


366 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


Was  it  a  Vision — was  it  Reality?  He  knew  not,  he  cared  not,  but  the 
vision  of  the  white  bosom,  the  pressure  of  the  moist  hand,  the  dazzling 
eyes — the  atmosphere  of  loveliness  which  invested  the  form,  and  intoxi- 
cated his  senses,  as  with  a  mingling  of  delicate  perfumes — forced  his  blood, 
in  impetuous  currents,  from  his  heart  to  his  face,  and  fired  his  eyes  with 
more  than  mortal  light. 

"  It  is  Satan  !"  he  gasped,  and  pressed  the  hand  to  his  heart,  and  sunk 
against  the  pine,  bewildered  by  a  vague  and  inexplicable  languor — "  Satan, 
the  beautiful !" 

His  voice  failed  him :  gathering  the  hand  to  his  breast,  he  looked  upward 
in  silent  rapture. 

"  Paul  !"  the  voice  once  more  spoke  his  name,  and  pressed  that  name 
upon  his  mouth,  with  the  kiss  of  warm  lips  that  burned  his  blood. 

Before  we  gaze  upon  the  sequel  of  this  interview  between  Paul  Arden- 
heim  and  the  Principle  of  Evil,  embodied  in  the  form  of  a  beautiful  woman, 
we  must  retrace  our  steps,  and  return  to  the  other  characters  in  our  history. 

And  first,  Jacopo. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THIRD. 

"  PHILOSOPHY  !" 

Jacopo  was  a  Philosopher. 

In  recording  this  important  fact,  we  mean  to  do  especial  reverence  to  the 
large  class  of  which  he  was  an  eminent  member 

To  be  a  Philosopher,  it  is  necessary  to  look  upon  Good  and  Evil  as 
highly  amusing  names  for  different  forms  of  the  same  thing.  When  you 
behold  the  world  deformed  by  Evil,  crimsoned  with  war,  polluted  with 
the  deeds  of  a  horde  of  tyrants,  under  various  names,  you  must  not  com- 
plain of  the  Evil,  nor  speak  harshly  of  the  war,  nor  breathe  a  whisper 
against  the  tyrants. 

You  must  merely  say — "Such  things  always  have  been,  and  such  things 
always  will  be." 

This  is  Philosophy. 

When  you  see  an  innocent  girl,  hallowed  by  the  ray  of  virginity,  strug- 
gling for  bread,  and  earning,  by  her  sixteen  hours  of  daily  toil,  a  pittance 
that  would  not  keep  a  rich  lady  in  rouge  for  an  hour,  you  must  not  speak 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


367 


of  a  better  day  for  the  Poor  Girl,  nor  prophesy  the  coming  of  a  time,  when 
honest  maidenhood  will  be  no  longer  poor — no  longer  subject  to  the  cold 
scorn  of  the  rich— the  vulgar  avarice  of  the  task-master — the  lascivious 
•attempts  of  the  wealthy  profligate 

No,  sir.  Gazing  on  the  wan  cheek  of  the  Poor  Girl,  who  works  4  the 
nails  from  her  finger's  ends'  for  just  enough  f  to  keep  body  and  soul  to- 
gether,' you  must  gravely  exclaim — 

"  Such  things  always  have  been,  and  such  things  always  will  be." 

For  this  is  Philosophy. 

Or  in  case  the  Poor  Girl,  tired  of  struggling  for  the  bitter  crust,  and 
sleeping  in  the  damp,  cold  home,  while  the  ten  thousands  of  the  rich  have 
their  banquets,  their  operas,  their  dresses  of  velvet  and  satin,  their  diamonds 
and  gold — tired,  I  say  of  this  hard,  drear  life,  should  listen  to  the  offers  of 
the  Rich  Libertine,  and  sacrifice  her  priceless  virtue  for  bread,  clothing, 
and  something  like  a  home,  or  perchance  for  the  mere  proposal  of  mar- 
riage, which  is  never  intended  to  be  fulfilled — you  must  not  in  this  case  call 
the  Wealthy  Profligate  a  scoundrel,  worthier  of  the  gallows  than  ever  a 
Pirate  that  trod  a  bloody  deck,  nor  should  you  drop  one  tear  for  Poor  Vir- 
ginity, suddenly  wrecked  into  hopeless  prostitution. 

No,  sir. 

While  the  Rich  Libertine  goes  to  his  gambling  hell,  and  quenches  the 
fever  of  his  idleness  in  dice  or  cards,  or,  maybe — for  such  things  are  done — 
hurries  to  his  Fashionable  Church,  and  sits  in  his  pew,  with  his  name  on 
the  door,  in  silver,  and  subscribes  large  sums  to  Missionary  efforts,  for 
the  benighted  Pagans,  while  the  Dishonored  Girl,  shut  out  from  all  pure, 
all  respectable  society,  because  the  Rich  Libertine  bought  her  virtue  for  a 
Promise,  has  no  resort  but  the  house  of  infamy — you  will  compose  your- 
self into  a  sober  attitude,  and  with  unctuous  utterance  exclaim — 

"  Such  tilings  always  have  been,  and  such  things  always  will  be" 

This,  as  I  said  before,  is  Philosophy. 

Maybe  you  live  in  a  Free  Land,  which  was  colonized,  some  hundreds 
of  years  ago,  by  a  band  of  wandering  exiles,  who  followed  the  hand  of 
God,  and  came  out  from  the  Old  World,  into  the  virgin  wilderness,  and 
said,  "  Here  we  build  an  altar,  sacred  to  the  freedom  of  all  races  of  men." 

A  Free  Land,  which  was  admitted  in  the  family  of  Nations,  after  a  long 
and  bloody  Revolution,  after  many  and  fearful  battles,  after  a  Declaration 
which  proclaimed  to  all  the  world,  in  the  name  of  Almighty  God,  '  That 
all  men  are  created  free  and  equal  /' 

May  be,  this  Free  Land,  only  Seventy-one  years  after  the  Declaration, 
is  cursed  by  White  Slavery,  that  hurls  men  and  women  and  children  in 
the  hot  air  of  the  factory,  or  coffins  them  in  the  foul  courts  of  a  Large 
City,  dooming  them  to  coin  their  lives  into  a  little  bread,  while  the  Rich 
Man  gets  all  the  richer  for  their  groans  and  tears.  Or,  maybe  it  is  deformed, 
— this  Free  Land,  sanctified  and  set  apart  by  God  for  the  good  of  universal 


363  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

man — by  a  Bkck  Slavery,  that  sells  the  unborn  fruit  of  the  mother's 
womb,  and  pays  a  bounty  for  the  violation  of  every  instinct  planted  by 
the  Almighty  in  the  heart  of  Father,  Child,  Brother  and  Sister.  A  Black 
Slavery,  that  pays  the  expenses  of  chivalrous  luxury,  by  selling  wives 
from  their  husbands,  fathers  from  their  child-en,  the  baby  from  its 
mother's  bosom  ;  by  trading  in  human  flesh,  as  though  it  were  meat  for 

the  shambles;  by  but  there  are   facts  so  beautiful  in  this  Black 

Slavery,  that  the  Devil  himself  would  be  ashamed  to  write  them  down, 
upon  the  darkest  page  of  Eternal  Torment;  truths  so  lovely,  that  the 
Devil  himself  would  blush  to  tell  them  to  a  group  of  listening  friends. 

Well ;  your  Free  Land  is  cursed  by  the  White  and  the  Black  Slavery, 
but  you  must  not  speak  reproachfully  of  either.  You  must  not  say  that 
the  White  Slave,  and  the  Black  Slave,  were  made  by  the  same  God,  and 
redeemed  by  the  same  Christ,  as  the  Rich  Man  and  Slaveholder. 

No,  sir. 

While  the  White  Slave  swelters  in  the  factory,  giving  life  and  lungs, 
breath  and  heart,  to  the  rich  man's  coffers, — while  the  Black  Slave  (in 
many  cases  whiter  than  his  Master)  is  sold  in  sight  of  your  Capitol,  and 
manacled  and  lashed,  beneath  the  same  Flag  which  floated  over  Wash- 
ington at  Yorktown,  you  must  compose  yourself,  and  utter  the  calm 
remark — 

"Such  tilings  always  have  been,  and  such  things  always  will  be."  . 
Again  ;  this  is  Philosophy. 

As  we  gain  some  knowledge  of  the  nature  of  Philosophy,  we  may  also 
form  some  idea  of  the  character  of  the  Philosopher. 

He  is  one  of  the  most  estimable  characters  in  the  world.  No  wrong — 
committed  on  others — can  discompose  his  steady  nerves,  no  outrage — 
perpetrated  on  his  neighbor — can  shake  the  calm  serenity  of  his  soul.  In 
Turkey  he  is  a  great  admirer  of  the  Grand  Turk  ;  in  Russia  he  loves  the 
Autocrat;  in  England  he  speaks  with  proper  serenity  of  the  starvation 
of  some  millions  of  Irishmen  ;  in  Timbuctoo  he  greases  his  face,  and 
shouts  hosanna  to  a  God  who,  embodied  in  a  reptile,  is  worshipped  by  rat- 
tling pebbles  in  a  calabash;  in  America,  he  speaks  respectfully  of  Slavery, 
either  Black  or  White,  and  in  Thibet  he  considers  the  Grand  Llama  a 
very  respectable  personage  indeed. 

Some  hundreds  of  years  ago,  the  Philosopher  spoke  with  great  con- 
tempt of  certain  vulgar  Fishermen  and  Peasants,  '•who  turned  the  ivorld 
upside  down?  by  a  silly  doctrine  about  the  Brotherhood  of  Man,  the 
Gospel  of  the  Poor,  and  other  doctrines  as  vague  and  imaginary. 

The  sum  and  substance  of  the  Philosopher's  belief  is  comprised  in  a  few 
quaint  maxims.  '•Such  things  always  have  been,  such  things  always  will 
be.''    '  Tis  the  way  of  the  world.''   1  Take  the  world  as  it  comes.'' 

The  last,  '•Take  the  world  as  it  comes?  is  a  sovereign  excuse  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Philosopher  for  every  deed  known  in  the  calendar  of  Crime. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


369 


The  Seduction  of  a  Poor  Girl  by  a  wealthy  Libertine— the  murder  of  a 
Poor  Man,  in  the  fetid  atmosphere  of  the  Factory,  by  the  Capitalist — the 
robbery  of  Widows  and  Orphans  by  the  wealthy  Bank  Director — the  selling 
of  the  babe  from  its  mother's  bosom,  by  the  chivalrous  slaveholder — these 
incidents,  and  all  others  of  like  calendar,  are  chaptered  in  the  Philosopher's 
mind  under  one  head,  to  wit;  "  Take  the  world  as  it  comes." 
So  glorious  a  thing  is  Philosophy. 

So  magnanimous  and  so  entirely  great  is  the  Philosopher. 
Jacopo  was  a  Philosopher. 

We  shall  endeavor  to  maintain  and  illustrate  this  point  in  the  present 
chapter. 

We  left  him  on  the  threshold  of  the  farm-house,  while  the  Negro  stood 
over  the  head  of  his  unconscious  Master,  knife  in  hand,  and  a  deep  groan 
echoed  from  the  arbor. 

Jacopo  pushed  open  the  door,  and  entered  the  large  room,  or  hall  of  the 
old  farm-house. 

As  the  light  streamed  in  upon  the  gloom,  Jacopo  recognised  the  familiar 
features  of  the  place.  It  was  the  scene  of  the  New  Year's  festival  on  the 
last  night  of  1774.  But  the  broad  hearth  was  tireless  now ;  it  yawned 
black  and  cold,  in  the  cheerful  sunlight.  The  huge  rafters  no  longer 
echoed  the  shouts  of  the  merry-makers,  nor  did  the  floor  tremble  under 
the  dancer's  tread.  The  room  was  silent  and  gloomy ;  the  shutters 
were  closed,  and  the  only  light  which  enlivened  its  details,  came  through 
the  open  door. 

That  light  shone  over  a  broad  oaken  table,  which  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  floor. 

The  sight  of  the  table  brought  the  tears  to  Jacopo's  eyes — 
"  Touching  but  harrowing  memory  !  There  sat. old  Peter,  with  his  red 
nose  beaming  over  his  white  beard,  like  a  beacon  over  a  snow-drift.  Here, 
the  turkey  was  placed,  done  to  a  turn  too,  and  there  the  cats,  which  Law, 
Medicine,  and  Divinity,  by  a  simple  act  of  faith,  transformed  into  rabbits. 
Upon  this  very  spot,  old  Peter  mixed — nay,  mixed  is  a  vulgar  word — con- 
structed the  sublime  vision  of  the  Dorfner  punch,  which  made  us  all  see 
stars,  and  lifted  our  hearts  into  the  regions  of  the  Milky  Way." 
Jacopo  was  overwhelmed  with  tender  regrets. 

"Venerable  table  !"  he  cried,  "I  have  made  a  Pilgrimage  to  thee,  even 
as  the  devout  of  the  olden  time  journeyed  to  St.  Jago  of  Compostella ! 
Thou  shalt  be  dedicated  to  the  name  of  St.  Dorfner,  of  the  White  Beard  ; 
thy  symbol,  a  Jug  of  Foaming  Punch.  Thy  Pilgrim,  a  frail  child  of  mor- 
tality, sometimes  called  Jacopo,  who,  amid  all  his  frailties,  cherishes  still 
in  the  inmost  core  of  his  heart,  the  memory  of  the  Dorfner  Punch — 
Zounds !  Why  did  not  my  guardian,  who  had  the  care  of  my  father's 
•state,  send  me  to  school  to  a  Poet.  Decidedly  I  have  a  genius  in  that  way. 

24 


370 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  When  the  summer  day  is  near  its  close, 

And  sorrows  gather  in — a  bunch, 
Then  bring  the  balm  for  mortal  woes, 

And  drown  me  in  a  Dorfner — Punch." 

After  he  had  recited  this  extemporaneous  snatch  of  lyric  poetry,  Jacopo 
subsided  from  the  regions  of  the  ideal  into  sober  matter  of  fact. 

"It  was  on  this  very  spot  that  I  gave  the  soothin'  potion  to  Madeline," 
he  said,  with  a  cool,  business-like  air;  "although,  at  the  time,  I  did  not 
dream  of  drugging  the  aristocracy,  or  even  its  humblest  member." 

Through  the  gloom  which  hung  over  the  place,  Jacopo  beheld  the  door 
which  opened  upon  the  stairway,  leading  into  the  upper  rooms  of  the  farm- 
house. 

" '  Sleep  in  that  room,  Jacopo,1  was  the  remark  of  the  respectable  Hop- 
kins :  f  search  every  closet.  Wliatever  you  find  in  the  way  of  paper  or 
parchment,  bring  to  me,  and  your  fortune  is  made.  Be  particularly  care- 
ful of  every  thing  that  bears  the  date,  November  twenty-third,  fifty-six1 
It  was  very  kind  in  Hopkins  to  tell  me  all  this  ;  but  he  might  have  had  the 
decency  to  tell  me,  in  plain  terms,  that  a  murder  had  been  committed  in 
this  house,  on  that  particular  day;  or  he  might  have  insinuated,  even  in  the 
most  delicate  manner,  that  '  after  the  deed  was  done,  the  child  was  taken 
away,1  or  that  '■Dorfner,  with  the  corpse,  also  concealed  certain  parch- 
ments and  papers1  et  cetera!" 

Jacopo  glanced  upon  the  fragments  of  printed  paper  which  he  grasped 
in  his  right  hand,  and  at  the  same  instant  his  slender  legs  shook  like  reeds. 

"If  Dorfner  awakes,  I  am  lost!"  he  cried,  and  hurried  to  the  door — 
opened  it — and  ascended  a  dark  stairway. 

"At  the  head  of  the  stairway,"  thought  Jacopo,  "is  the  passage  which 
traverses  the  farm-house  from  north  to  south,  and  at  its  southern  end  the 
room  of  Madeline." 

The  darkness  and  silence  struck  the  philosoper  with  awe.  The  echo 
of  his  footsteps,  the  very  creaking  of  the  rheumatic  stairs,  frightened  him. 
Presently  he  stood  in  the  passage  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  in  the 
impenetrable  gloom,  turned  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  Madeline's  chamber. 

"  Over  the  hall  of  the  farm-house,  there  are  two  rooms,"  he  muttered — 
"  one  is  Madeline's,  and  t'other,  as  I've  been  told,  has  not  been  opened 
these  eight  years." 

His  hand  touched  the  door  of  the  latter  chamber  as  he  murmured  these 
words.    Jacopo  was  seized  with  a  violent  nervous  attack. 

"Madeline's  door  is  but  a  step  farther,"  he  said,  and  advanced' with 
unsteady  steps  through  the  thick  darkness. 

His  hand — extended  at  arm's  length,  and  shaking  like  a  weathercock 
on  a  stormy  day — touched  the  panels  of  a  door. 

Then  it  was  that  Jacopo  belied  his  philosophy,  and  shook  from  head 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


371 


to  foot,  and  grew  hot  and  cold  by  turns.  For  a  distinct  memory  of  a  pool 
of  blood,  upon  an  oaken  floor,  at  the  foot  of  a  bed,  not  only  possessed  his 
fancy,  but  floated  before  his  eye  in  the  very  darkness  of  the  passage. 

Gathering  nerve,  he  placed  his  foot  against  the  door  ;  it  opened  sud- 
denly, and  he  fell  upon  his  face,  on  the  threshold  of  Madeline's  chamber. 

With  a  curse  and  a  groan,  he  raised  his  face,  and  cast  a  hurried  glance 
over  the  room. 

Through  ttte  dingy  curtains  of  the  southern  window,  streamed  the  warm 
sunshine,  while  the  western  window  was  darkened  by  a  cloak,  or  some 
other  garment,  which,  hung  over  the  small  leaden  panes,  gave  passage  to 
but  a  few  wandering  rays. 

In  the  corner,  between  these  windows,  stood  a  bed,  whose  coverlet, 
soiled  with  dust,  bore  the  impress  of  a  human  form. 

There  was  a  dressing-bureau  of  dark  walnut,  surmounted  by  a  small 
mirror,  opposite  the  bed,  and  two  chairs  stood  against  the  oak  panels 
which  covered  the  walls.  The  white  cover  of  the  bureau  was  white  no 
longer,  for  it  was  discolored  by  a  thick  coating  of  dust — the  mirror  was 
shrouded  in  a  veil  of  cobwebs. 

These  details  Jacopo  comprehended  at  a  glance,  as,  resting  his  hands 
and  knees  upon  the  dusty  floor,  he  gazed  nervously  about  him. 

He  arose  and  closed  the  door,  and  cast  his  eyes  towards  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  The  floor  was  covered  with  dust,  and  yet  he  fancied  that  a  dark 
stain  marred  its  surface,  and  gloomed  ominously  upon  him. 

"  'Tis  just  the  same  as  I  saw  it  on  that  morni?i\  two  years  and  six 
months  ago  !  There's  the  bureau  — the  chairs  — the  bed — all  the  same  as 
when  I  saw  them  last.  I  know  it's  peculiar.  The  only  change  that  I 
see,  is  that  cloak  hung  over  the  window — the  window  which  looks  out 
upon  the  chesnut  tree.  As  for  the  bed — u-g-h  !  The  print  of  her  form 
is  stamped  upon  the  dusty  coverlet,  and — " 

Jacopo  advanced  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  with  a  quivering  hand 
brushed  the  dust  away  for  the  space  of  two  or  three  feet. 

As  the  thickly  gathered  dust  was  swept  away,  and  a  portion  of  the 
white  oaken  floor  brightened  in  the  sunshine,  in  the  centre  of  that  white 
space  appeared  a  dark  purple  stain. 

Jacopo  sprang  to  his  feet,  as  though  a  snake  had  bitten  his  heel. 

"  It's  her  blood  !"  he  cried,  and  again  he  proved  untrue  to  his  philoso- 
phy ;  for  the  sun,  shining  upon  his  small  nose,  wide  mouth,  and  inflated 
cheeks,  revealed  a  visage  ashy  as  the  face  of  a  dead  man.  "  Hello  !  The 
closet,  as  I'm  an  honest  man !"  and  philosophy  came  to  his  aid,  and  his 
face  brightened  into  modest  blushes. 

In  the  corner  next  to  the  western  window,  appeared  a  solitary  panel, 
separated  from  the  others  by  an  oaken  frame,  and  reaching  from  the  ceil- 
ing to  the  floor.    On  one  side  appeared  some  traces  of  a  keyhole— Jacopo 


372 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


swept  the  cobwebs  away,  and  his  mouth  at  once  displayed  its  capacity  in 
a  boundless  grin. 

It  was  indeed  the  closet,  but  where  was  the  key  ? 

Jacopo  pondered  anxiously  for  a  moment,  with  his  finger  upon  the  tip 

of  his  nose. 

"I  must  force  this  door;  but  where's  a  crowbar?  Considering  all 
circumstances  —  the  exigencies  of  the  case — the  fact,  that  if  Peter  Dorfner 
wakes  up,  I  am  a  murdered  man — at  all  events,  a  kicked  man — the 
scarcity  of  crowbars — with  other  reasons,  which  are  doubtless  very  good, 
but  which  do  not  now  occur — I  think  that  I  am  justified  in  using  the 
hatchet  which  I  saw  on  the  table  down  stairs." 

After  he  had  come  to  this  remarkable  conclusion,  Jacopo  lost  no  time 
in  hurrying  to  the  door,  and  presently  his  footsteps  echoed  from  the 
stairs.  He  was  not  absent  longer  than  a  minute  ;  and  when  he  returned, 
the  hatchet  was  in  his  hand,  and  his  face  was  enlivened  by  a  grimace, 
which  buried  his  eyes  among  laughing  wrinkles,  while  it  gave  his  mouth 
the  outline  of  a  loosened  shoe-string. 

"  Now  for  the  closet,  and  the  mysteries,"  exclaimed  Jacopo,  as  he 
stood  on  the  threshold — "  and,  above  all  things,  for  the  Twenty-Third  of 
November,  Fifty-Six  !" 

The  hatchet  fell  from  his  hand,  and  clattered  on  the  floor,  while  Jacopo 
staggered  backward  against  the  door-frame. 

"The  Devil!"  he  ejaculated,  with  a  profound  sigh,  his  small  eyes  dilat- 
ing like  the  eyes  of  a  cat  in  the  dark,  and  his  nether  jaw  separating  from 
the  upper. 

He  was  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  trembling ;  he  rubbed  his  eyes  ; 
he  pinched  his  thin  legs  ;  he  pressed  his  hands  upon  his  round  paunch ; 
he  shook  himself  like  a  water-spaniel,  after  a  bath. 

"  I  am  not  dreaming  !"  he  ejaculated. 

It  was  very  much  like  a  dream.  A  braver  man  than  Jacopo  might 
have  been  frightened  ;  a  greater  Philosopher  than  Jacopo  might  have  been 
driven  from  his  stoical  composure  ;  for  it  was  a  very  remarkable  sight 
which  he  saw,  altogether  shadowy  and  unreal  in  appearance. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room,  near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  in  the  light  of 
the  southern  window,  appeared  a  small  pine  table,  standing  on  four 
rickety  legs,  and  covered  with  papers  and  parchments.  Among  these 
papers  and  parchments,  which  had  a  kind  of  sepulchral  look,  being  imbued 
with  a  musty  odor,  indicative  of  old  chests,  or  suggestive  of  some  with- 
ered lawyer's  den, — among  these  papers  and  parchments,  I  say,  appeared 
a  pale  white  hand,  which  grasped  a  pen,  and  rested  upon  a  broad  sheet 
of  foolscap. 

That  pale  white  hand  belonged  to  an  elderly  gentleman,  clad  in  black, 
as  all  elderly  gentlemen  ought  to  be,  and  seated — like  a  man  at  his  ease 
— in  an  oaken  chair,  with  unpainted  arms  and  capacious  seat 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


373 


It  was  this  pine  table,  this  pale  white  hand,  this  elderly  gentleman, 
which  filled  Jacopo  with  indefinable  terror. 

Had  the  pine  table  started  from  the  floor,  like  the  festival  board  of 
some  goblin  story  ?  Had  the  elderly  gentleman  been  summoned,  by  a 
spell,  from  some  uneasy  resting-place  in  some  forgotten  graveyard? 

Jacopo  could  not  answer  these  questions,  but,  cold  with  affright,  leaned 
against  the  door-post,  his  knees  shaking  together,  like  dry  sticks  on  a 
windy  day. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  he  could  muster  courage  to  gaze  into  the  face 
of  this  indefinable  personage.  He  was  writing,  very  leisurely,  like  a  good 
merchant  in  his  counting-house ;  his  eyes  were  downcast,  and  he  did  not 
seem  to  know  that  there  was  such  an  individual  as  Jacopo  in  the  world. 

You  may  imagine  the  feelings  which  agitated  the  heart  of  Jacopo,  as 
he  examined,  with  a  stealthy  glance,  the  countenance  and  the  attire  of  this 
Incomprehensible. 

It  was  the  visage  of  a  man  of  some  sixty  years.  The  nose  was  long, 
the  lips  thin,  the  forehead  broad  and  high,  with  short,  stiff,  gray  hair,  dis- 
closing the  outline  of  a  large  head.  A  solitary  mass  of  his  gray  hair — it 
could  not  be  called  a  curl — rested  upon  the  centre  of  the  brow,  falling 
half-way  down  to  the  well-defined  eyebrows.  The  eyes  were  not  visible ; 
Jacopo  was  every  instant  afraid  that  they  would  be  raised,  and  that  their 
glance  would  penetrate  his  soul. 

The  form  of  the  stranger  was  marked  by  a  broad  chest,  wide  shoulders, 
and  long  arms.  He  was  clad,  as  I  have  said,  in  sober  black;  a  waistcoat 
buttoned  to  the  throat,  with  a  white  cravat  about  the  neck,  and  spotless 
ruffles  around  the  wrists.  His  legs  were  crossed  under  the  table  ;  Jacopo 
beheld  a  diamond  buckle  shining  on  his  black  shoe,  like  a  glow-worm  on 
a  piece  of  charcoal. 

And  the  elderly  gentleman  continued  writing,  with  the  light  playing 
over  his  pale  forehead,  while  Jacopo  stood  trembling  against  the  door-post. 
Not  for  a  moment  did  he  raise  his  eyes,  nor  did  he  manifest,  by  the  slight- 
est gesture,  that  he  was  aware  of  Jacopo's  presence. 

This  continued  for  five  minutes  or  more ;  the  cold  dews  began  to  start 
from  Jacopo's  brow. 

"  It  is  the  Devil !"  he  mentally  ejaculated. 

Still  the  stranger  continued  writing,  only  once  removing  his  hand  from 
his  paper,  to  brush  a  vagrant  fly  from  his  nose.  A  smile  began  to  gather 
about  his  thin  lips,  and  widen  slowly  over  ,  his  face,  until  it  agitated  the 
small  wrinkles  near  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

u  Ehem  !"  coughed  Jacopo, — and  shuddered,  for  he  was  afraid  of  those 
eyes,  which  he  had  not  seen. 

The  unknown  continued  writing. 

Grasping  the  door-post  with  one  hand,  Jacopo  wiped  the  cold  dew  from 


374  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

his  forehead  with  the  other,  and  summoned  all  his  Philosophy  to  his  aid. 
He  was  nerving  himself  in  silence  for  a  desperate  effort. 

"  Where" — he  gasped,  frightened  at  the  sound  of  his  voice — "  Where 
did  you  come  from  ?" 

How  his  heart  beat  against  his  ribs,  as  he  awaited  the  answer ! 

Yet  the  elderly  gentleman  did  not  raise  his  eyes,  nor  pause  for  an  in- 
stant in  his  task;  with  imperturbable  gravity  he  continued  writing,  the  noise 
made  by  his  pen,  heard  distinctly  through  the  silence. 

"Did  he  come  in  the  winder?"  faltered  Jacopo,  relapsing  unconsciously 
into  a  vulgarity  of  expression,  rather  unphilosophical, — "  Or  through  the 
floor?  Did  he  bring  the  table  in  his  pocket?  Maybe  he  came  through 
the  closet  ?  No — no,  sir  !  It  can't  be.  The  door  is  still  locked,  and 
there's  the  cobwebs  over  the  lock.  Ugh  !  This  goes  ahead  of  Italy  and 
France  and  Spain — never  saw  any  thing  like  it  in  my  life,  not  even  in  the 
great  German  Principality  of  Spitzenburschendingenflotzer,  where  the 
Devil  comes  dressed  in  breeches  and  flannel,  and  the  peasants  believe  in 
Ghosts,  who  eat  sour-krout." 

The  voice  of  the  unknown  was  heard  for  the  first  time  ;  it  was  a  voice 
as  low,  as  sweet,  as  melodious  as  the  voice  of  a  beautiful  woman  ;  and 
yet  Jacopo  shuddered  again  as  he  heard  it. 

Without  raising  his  eyes,  the  uaknown  exclaimed  : 

"  There  are  two  kinds  of  scoundrels  in  this  world.  There  is  the  grave 
scoundrel,  who  indulges  himself  with  magnificent  villanies,  and  becomes 
glorious  from  the  very  magnitude  of  his  crimes.  The  Borgia  belonged  to 
this  class  ;  at  this  hour,  he  is  admired  for  his  elaborate  depravity.  Then 
there  is  the  petty  scoundrel,  who  ministers  to  the  basest  appetites  of  the 
grand  scoundrel,  and  becomes  the  miserable  hireling  of  splendid  baseness, 
selling  his  soul  for  a  piece  of  money,  and  wearing  his  perjuries  as  a  fop 
wears  paste  jewels.  It  is  the  life  of  such  a  scoundrel  that  I  hold  in  my 
hand-" 

"Eh !"  ejaculated  Jacopo. 

"  He  is  called  by  various  names,"  continued  the  elderly  gentleman, 
still  keeping  his  eyes  upon  the  paper;  "and  first  we  meet  with  him  in 
the  south  of  France,  as  a  lay  brother  of  the  Jesuits,  and  known  as  Brother 
Joseph-Marie — " 

Jacopo  started — rubbed  his  eyes — picked  his  ears. 

"  Saint  Beelzebub  !"  he  groaned. 

"As  Joseph-Marie.  The  house  of  the  Jesuits  stood  in  a  garden,  half- 
way up  a  hill,  whose  summit  commanded  a  view  of  the  Mediterranean. 
In  the  valley  beneath  was  a  convent,  whose  white  walls  looked  out  from 
among  vines  and  olive  trees.  Among  the  nuns  who  peopled  this  convent, 
was  one,  a  fair  and  beautiful  thing,  who  had  been  forced  by  wealthy  re- 
lations to  take  the  vow  against  her  will,  and  bury  all  the  love  and  fresh- 
ness of  her  virgin  heart  in  that  living  sepulchre.    She  was  called  Sister 


•I  HE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  375 

Antonia.  And  in  the  Monastery  of  the  Jesuits  was  a  pale,  thoughtful 
Father,  renowned  as  much  for  his  piety  and  eloquence,  as  for  his  youth ; 
as  much  for  the  brilliancy  of  his  eyes,  the  singular  sweetness  of  his  voice, 
as  for  the  remarkable  grandeur  of  his  intellect.  He  was  altogether  a  man 
to  be  loved  ;  the  very  children  knelt  for  his  blessing,  as  he  passed  along 
the  valley,  and  the  whole  country  by  the  sea  shore  resounded  with  the 
praises  of  Father  Ignatius.  But  he  was  a  man,  alas !  with  all  his  devo- 
tion to  the  Church  and  to  his  Order,  there  lingered  wit  in  his  bosom  a 
spark  of  earthly  passion,  which  only  wanted  a  single  breeze,  to  fan  into 
a  flame.  He  became  the  spiritual  Director  of  the  convent ;  he  met  with 
the  young  sister  Antonia ;  through  the  dim  lattice  of  the  confessional,  the 
griefs,  the  hopes,  the  fears  of  that  warm  heart  were  poured  into  his  soul. 

"  And  they  loved — loved  with  a  love  beyond  madness  in  intensity — and 
lingering  together,  in  the  shadows  of  the  conventual  chapel,  the  white 
sleeve  of  the  nun,  resting  on  the  dark  robe  of  the  Jesuit,  they  said  to  one 
another,  «  We  will  cast  aside  these  coffins  which  imprison  our  souls. 
We  will  fly  to  a  New  World.  A  cabin  under  a  hillside  in  the  depth  of 
some  untrodden  forest,  shall  be  our  refuge  and  our  bridal  home.' 

"  These  words  may  have  been  sealed  with  a  kiss,  for  the  nun  was  al- 
together beautiful,  and  the  yonng  Jesuit  felt  the  blood  fire  in  every  vein, 
as  by  the  many-colored  casement,  he  drew  her  form  to  his  heart,  and  saw 
the  light  of  the  rising  moon  reflected  in  her  eyes. — It  is  a  long  story,  but 
they  planned  their  escape.  The  night  was  fixed  ;  the  shallop  which  was 
to  bear  them  out  to  sea,  was  hidden  under  the  high  crags  by  the  shore. 
The  night  came,  I  say,  but  father  Ignatius  passed  it  in  the  dungeon  of  his 
Monastery,  beating  his  forehead  against  the  chains — and  there  was  a  life- 
less form  stretched  in  a  cell  of  the  convent,  the  corse  of  a  pale,  beautiful 
girl.  For  they  had  been  betrayed,  by  a  wretch  who  overheard  their 
plans, — who  listened  to  their  vows — who  counted  their  kisses — as  he  con- N 
cealed  his  form  behind  a  pillar  of  the  chapel.  And  that  wretch  was  the 
lay  Brother,  Joseph  Marie." 

Jacopo  was  white  as  a  shroud.    He  grasped  the  door  post  with  boih 
hands,  and  sank  helplessly  on  his  knees. 

"  Joseph-Marie,  the  Englishman,"  continued  the  unknown  without  rais- 
ing his  eyes,  "  the  lay  brother  of  the  Order  of  Jesus,  was  the  miserable 
creature,  who  gave  these  young  hearts  to  infamy  and  death  !  Let  us  turn 
over  another  page  of  his  history — " 

"  No  !  No  !  Do  not !"  gasped  Jacopo  on  his  knees,  but  the  unknown 
did  not  heed  him.    "  I'd  a  great  deal  rather  you  would  n't — " 

"  He  has  changed  his  name.  He  is  called  Bernard ;  he  is  the  favorite 
valet  of  a  superannuated  Profligate,  the  Count  D'Arcy.  Near  the  chatean 
of  the  Count,  is  the  hut  of  an  humble  peasant  man,  whose  life  of  slavery, 
is  relieved  by  the  presence  of  an  only  child — a  daughter — a  pure,  beautiful 
girl,  for  all  her  peasant  garb,  and  course  wooden  shoes.    And  it  is  Ber- 


376  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

nard  the  valet,,  who  lures  this  child  of  poverty  from  her  father  s  roof,  and 
sells  her  unpolluted  form,  into  the  arms  of  gray-haired  sensualism.  Oh, 
my  good  Bernard,  this  is  another  crime,  for  which  you  will  have  to 
answer  some  day — " 

Thus  speaking,  while  a  smile  agitated  his  thin  lips,  the  unknown  did 
not  once  raise  his  eyes.  Jacopo  grovelling  on  the  floor,  pale  as  death, 
and  shivering  as  with  an  ague  chill,  clenched  his  hands,  and  exclaimed 

"  It  is  no  man.    It  is  n't  a  human  being.    It's  the  ve-r-y  devil !" 

And  the  unknown  turned  over  another  page,  and  resumed  in  his  low 
musical  voice — 

"  In  Florence  we  next  behold  him.  The  companion  of  a  young  English 
lord,  something  between  a  Valet  and  a  Tutor.  And  the  young  Lord  loves 
an  Italian  girl,  the  daughter  of  an  aged  nobleman,  who  is  as  proud  as  he 
is  poor.  In  the  very  earnestness  of  youth,  in  the  very  frankness  of  boy- 
hood, our  young  English  lord  would  marry  this  girl,  and  set  an  English 
coronet  upon  her  white  forehead.  Who  is  it  that  poisons  his  heart  ?  Who 
is  it,  that  tells  the  young  lord  of  a  father's  anger,  and  the  sneer  of  the 
fashionable  world  ?  Who  is  it,  that  lulls  the  senses  of  the  old  man's 
child,  with  a  drugged  potion,  and  yields  her  an  insensible  and  helpless 
victim,  into  the  arms  of  infamy  ?  Who  but  our  old  friend  Joseph-Marie, 
sometimes  called  Bernard,  and  now  known  by  the  name  of  " 

"  Don't !  Don't !"  cried  Jacopo,  in  grotesque  dismay — **  Upon  my 
word  this  is  a  very  peculiar  state  of  affairs.  Indeed  I'm  not  of  sufficient 
consequence  to  merit  all  this  attention.  I'd  rather  you  would  not  speak 
of  it." 

"  By  the  name  of  Jacopo,"  calmly  continued  the  elderly  gentlem  n, 
"  But  the  basest  deed  of  all,  compared  to  which  all  other  infamies  are 
virtues, — ah  !  Wretch  it  is  written  here  !    Madeline  !    Madeline  !" 

At  this  word  an  overwhelming  horror  possessed  the  wretch  who 
grovelled  near  the  door.  His  hands  were  clenched,  but  he  could  not 
raise  them  from  his  knees  ;  the  cold  dews  were  upon  his  forehead ;  for 
the  first  time  something  like  Remorse  arose  before  his  Philosophic  Soul. 

"  She  was  only  a  Peasant  Girl,"  he  cried,  in  broken  tones — "  And 
Reginald  was  in  love  with  her — I  could  n't  help  it.    How  could  I  ?" 

It  was  incredible !  Jacopo  saw  and  doubted  ;  he  heard  and  could  not 
believe  ! 

This  elderly  gentleman,  with  the  sombre  attire  and  remarkable  face, 
continued  his  meditations,  without  seeming  to  be  aware  that  there  was  a 
certain  round-pouched,  red-nosed  man,  writhing  on  the  floor,  not  ten  paces 
from  his  chair.  Much  less  did  he  appear  to  know,  that  the  name  of  this 
man  was  Jacopo. 

"Jacopo, — once  called  Bernard — sometime  since  known  as  Brother 
Joseph  Marie  !"  continued  the  elderly  gentleman.    "  The  very  sublimity 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  377 

of  this  man's  baseness  fills  me  with  unutterable  loathing. — What  do  you 
think  of  it,  sir  ?" 

For  the  first  time  he  raised  his  eyes. 

Yes,  speaking  in  that  calm,  pleasant  voice,  with  an  elegant  gesture  of 
his  right  hand,  he  lifted  his  gaze  from  the  manuscript — he  looked  into 
Jacopo's  face. 

Where  his  eyes  dark,  were  they  gray  or  blue  ? 

Jacopo  could  not  tell.  Every  thing  about  him  was  swimming  in  a 
fiery  haze  ;  a  sound  like  the  murmur  of  a  distant  cataract  was  in  his  ears. 
And  yet,  through  that  murmur,  he  heard  the  clear  deep  tones  of  the  un- 
known— through  that  fiery  haze,  there  came  the  glare  of  two  intensely 
brilliant  eyes,  shining  and  turning  into  his  very  soul. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THIRD. 

"THREE  LETTERS!" 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  sir  ?" — again  that  voice. 

"  I  don't  know,"  cried  Jacopo,  as  he  grovelled  on  the  floor,  wiping  the 
streaming  perspiration  from  his  red  face — "  I  hardly  know — what — to 
think—" 

The  unknown  rested  his  elbow  on  the  table, — the  forefinger  of  his  right 
hand  on  his  lip — and  continued  in  a  meditative  tone : 

"Were  I  to  meet  this  Jacopo — this  Bernard— this  Joseph  Marie — this 
three  fold  traitor,  on  a  dark  night,  I  would  be  justified  in  putting  him  to 
death  as  I  would  a  noxious  reptile.  But  should  I  meet  him  in  broad  day 
— meet  him  in  a  quiet  room,  with  the  sunlight  playing  upon  his  coward 
face— Eh  ?    What  then  ?" 

"I  don't  know — "  and  Jacopo  turned  his  frightened  face  from  side  to 
side — "  I  can't  tell.  How  should  I  ?  Never  had  the  honor  of  bein'  ac- 
quainted with  this  Jac — Jac-o-po — " 

And  those  large  eyes,  shining  in  the  pallid  face  of  the  unknown,  made 
the  poor  wretch  shiver  with  inexpressible  terror. 

"  We  will  imagine  a  scene.  I  encounter  him  in  a  quiet  room,  on  a 
calm  sun-shiny  day.  I  have  a  pistol ;  he  has  none.  He  is  the  enemy  of 
the  human  race — a  reptile  when  it  is  virtue  to  crush  out  of  life.  I  am 
justified  in  killing  him,  not  only  by  every  law  of  justice,  every  instinct 


378  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

of  humanity,-  but  in  the  name  of  Antonia,  in  the  name  of  Marie,  in  the 
name  of  Guiellietta,  and  in  the  name  of  Madeline  !" 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Indeed,  it  never  struck  me  in  that  light,"  faltered 
Jacopo,  completely  frightened  out  of  his  wits. 

"  For  every  name  a  seperate  death,  for  every  crime  a  stab,  a  pistol  shot, 
and  a  Curse  !"  continued  the  unknown,  centreing  his  gaze  upon  the  face 
of  the  grovelling  wretch.    "  What  do  you  think  of  it,  sir?" 

The  elderly  gentleman  arose  and  paced  up  and  down  the  chamber,  with 
his  hands  behind  his  back. 

"  He  limps  on  one  leg,"  muttered  Jacopo,  "  and  yet  I  can't  see  the 
cloven  foot!" 

He  cringed  nearer  to  the  wall,  for  the  unknown  almost  touched  him  as 
he  passed  along.  Stealthily  raising  his  eyes,  Jacopo  cast  a  hurried  glance 
into  that  pale  face,  with  its  dazzling  eyes,  and  bold  broad  forehead. 

"  I've  seen  it  afore,—  "  he  said,  and  wrung  his  hands — "  I  remember  it 

by    #    *    #  J" 

Then,  as  if  some  memory  had  overwhelmed  his  soul — or  that  part  of 
him  which  passed  for  a  soul — with  a  new  fear,  he  rested  his  hot  forehead 
against  the  wall,  and  shook  as  with  an  ague  chill. 

M  Rise  !" — Jacopo  heard  the  word,  and  started  trembling  to  his  feet. 

The  stranger  confronted  him.  Confronted  him  with  that  form  clad  in 
black,  with  that  massy  forehead,  and  those  eyes  that  seemed  to  turn  into 
his  soul.  He  was  very  near  Jacopo — he  could  have  touched  him  with 
his  hand — but  he  shrunk  away  and  cringed  closer  to  the  wall 

"  What  would  you  give  to  save  your  life  ?" 

Hope  dawned  in  Jacopo's  diminative  eyeballs. 

"  Most  anythin'  "  gasped  the  Philosopher—"  Only  don't  you  come  any 
nearer.    I'm  a  little  nervous  you  know.    Just  rose  out  of  a  sick  bed." 

"  What  would  you  do  to  save  your  life  ?"  asked  the  elderly  gentleman, 
in  a  stern  low  voice. 

"  Anythin'  you  can  mention,"  said  the  Philosopher,  shaking  from  head 
to  foot — "  From  burnin'  a  church  to  lamin'  a  cripple, — anythin' — any- 
thin'—" 

The  unknown  turned  away,  traversing  the  floor  with  a  halting  gait, 
while  the  Philosopher  cringed  closer  to  the  wall. 
It  was  a  fearful  moment  for  Jacopo. 

"  He's  gettin'  his  pistols— no  !  It's  a  knife — ah  !  Unlucky  conjunc- 
tion of  my  planets — in  a  little  while,  say  ten  minutes  or  more,  I'll  be  a 
carcass — stiff — with  all  sorts  of  gashes  about  me — " 

"  You  heard  of  the  village  of  Germantown  ?"  said  the  stranger,  as  with 
his  back  turned  toward  Jacopo,  he  looked  from  the  southern  window. 

"  Germantown  ?  What,  that  delightful  Dutch  paradise,  where  the 
children  of  two  years  weigh  a  hundred  pounds,  and  old  folks — especially 
old  maids — can't  die  ?    The  houses  are  built  along  one  street,  like  a  row 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


379 


of  buttons  on  a  great  coat,  and  every  other  house  is  haunted  by  a  ghost, 
or  a  devil,  or  some  such  kind  of  thing.  Did  I  ever  hear  of  Germantown  ? 
My  goodness  !    I  was  kicked  there  once — " 

"You  will  go  to  Germantown.  You  will  deliver  these  letters.  And 
your  life  is  spared." 

The  elderly  gentleman  turned  toward  Jacopo,  holding  some  letters  or 
papers  in  his  extended  hand. 

"  Obey  my  commands — deliver  these  letters — and  your  life  is  spared." 
—and  hie  .fixed  his  gaze  upon  the  face  of  the  Philosopher — "  Do  you  con- 
sent'/" 

"  Do  I?    Do  I  look  as  if  I  did  n't  ?"  whined  Jacopo. 

"  Listen  !  You  will  hasten  to  Germantown,  by  a  lane  which  skirts  the 
forest  not  half  a  mile  from  where  I  stand — " 

« Y-e-s      Y-e-s  !"  1 

"  You  have  heard  of  the  ?  township-line  road'  ?" 

Jacopo  nodded  as  if  he  intended  to  shake  his  red  nose  from  his  face. 

"  You  will  deliver  this  letter  at  the  corner  of  the  lane  and  the  *  town 
ship-line  road.' — P 

"  There's  no  house  there,"  interrupted  Jacopo—"  It's  as  wild  as  a 
basket  of  gray  cats  —  " 

"  Near  the  forks  of  the  road,  stands  a  solitary  cedar,  and  by  this  cedar 
a  huge  granite  rock. — Are  you  listening. — " 

Again  Jacopo  nodded — nodded  with  frightful  intensity. 

"  In  a  crevice  of  this  rock,  which  stands  near  the  solitary  cedar,  you 
will  place  this  letter.  Mark  it  well,  and  note  the  superscription — '2b  the 
Ki?ig.'    Do  you  understand  me  ?" 

"All  over,"  faltered  Jacopo,  with  a  convulsive  grimace. 

"  After  you  have  concealed  this  letter  in  the  crevice,  you  will  hurry  on. 
Traversing  the  lane,  you  will  emerge  upon  the  solitary  street  of  German- 
town,  opposite  the  lawn  of  Chew's  House.    You  have  seen  this  lawn  ?" 

"  It  is  seperated  from  the  road  by  a  stone  wall,  nearly  half  a  mile  long" 
— suggested  Jacopo. 

"  At  the  setting  of  the  sun,  a  man  dressed  in  a  gray  surtout,  and  mounted 
on  a  black  horse,  will  await  you  near  the  southern  end  of  this  wall.  He 
will  rein  his  horse  in  the  road,  and  turn  his  face  to  the  west.  You  will 
give  him  this  letter.  You  will  remember  the  superscription — 1  To  the 
Duke  V    In  the  peril  of  your  soul,  do  not  confound  these  letters  !" 

"If  I  do,  may  I  be  " 

"  Do  not  swear,"  said  the  elderly  personage,  with  a  smile  quivering 
about  his  thin  lips — "  For  an  oath,  with  you,  Joseph  Marie,  with  you 
Bernard — do  you  comprehend — with  you  Jacojio, — is  only  a  Herald 
sent  before,  to  announce  the  coming  of  a — Lie.    Do  not  swear.' 

"  I  wont  swear.    I'll  be  very  particular  on  that  point,  I  assure  you." 

"  You  will  remember  ?    The  first  letter  to  the  crevice  in  the  rock,  the 


380 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


second  to  the  man  who  will  wait  for  you,  in  front  of  Chew's  lawn,  and — 
the  third—" 
"  The  third  ?" 

"  After  you  have  delivered  the  second  letter,  you  will  enter  the  Haunted 
House,  and  deliver  this  letter — it  has  no  superscription — to  the  first  per- 
son, whom  you  may  chance  to  meet." 

"  The  Haunted  House !"  ejaculated  our  Philosopher,  "  How  shall  I 
know  it  ?    There's  two  or  three  dozen  in  Germantown." 

"  Any  of  the  villagers  will  tell  you  where  it  stands.  Near  the  southern 
end  of  Chew's  wall,  — a  substantial  fabric  of  gray  stone — two  storied — 
with  a  cottage  or  cabin,  on  one  side,  and  a  garden  surrounded  by  a  high 
wall  on  the  other.    You  cannot  avoid  it." 

"  And  I  am  to  enter  this  House  ?"  said  Jacopo,  with  a  shudder. 

"  Yes, — and  mark  you, — without  being  seen  by  any  person.  You 
must  enter  it  in  silence,  in  secresy,  and  once  within  its  walls,  deliver  this 
letter  without  superscription,  as  you  see,  to  the  first  person  whom  you 
may  encounter." 

"  Oh  !"  ejaculated  Jacopo.  11  Excuse  me — only  a  sudden  pain — but — 
but — if  this  blank  should  happen  to  be  filled  up  with  his  name?  His — 
you  understand  " 

He  pointed  downwards  with  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand 

"What  mean  you  !" 

"  The  Dev-il !"  faltered  the  Philosopher. 

"Do  you  jest  with  me,  sirrah?"  said  the  unknown,  as  a  cold  smile 
played  round  his  lips,  while  his  eyes  so  strangely  lustrous,  flashed  with 
anger.  "Jest  with  your — Judge?  You  are  courageous  !  A  word  from 
me,  and  you  will  become  the  Hangman's  prey — a  goodly  acorn  for  the 
gallow's  tree  !    Jest  on — I  will  be  pleased  to  hear  you." 

"  Mercy  !    Mercy  !"  screamed  Jacopo, — "  I  will  obey." 

"  Spare  your  cries.  I  can  trust  you.  For  you  know  that  I  hold  your 
life  in  my  hands.  Disobey  me — fail  in  a  single  item  of  my  commands — 
and  you  are  dead,  before  the  rising  of  another  sun." 

The  Haunted  House  !"  murmured  Jacopo—"  Yes — I  will  obey — " 

There  was  a  wild  light  in  the  eyes  of  the  unknown,  a  mocking  smile 
about  his  lips,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  cringing  Philosopher,  and  ex- 
claimed— 

"  Yes,  the  Haunted  House.  The  villagers  avoid  it — not  a  man  in  the 
place  would  enter  it  for  his  weight  in  gold.  They  say  a  curse  broods 
over  its  walls — the  curse  of  unnatural  murder.  It  has  been  untenanted 
for  many  years  ;  the  garden  is  choked  with  weeds,  and  the  grass  grows 
about  its  threshold  stone.  Strange  sounds  are  heard,  echoing  from  its 
deserted  chambers  at  dead  of  night, — and  lights  as  strange,  as  spectral, 
flit  from  window  to  window,  and  shine  dismally  through  the  darkness — 
it  is  indeed  an  accursed  place,  this  Haunted  House." 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  381 

The  cold  moisture  started  in  beads  from  Jacopo's  brow.  He  gazed 
upon  this  singular  personage,  who  stood  motionless  between  his  eyes  and 
the  window,  he  heard  his  calm,  silvery  voice,  he  felt  the  dazzling  lustre 
of  his  full  deep  eyes,  and  a  fear  such  as  he  had  never  experienced  before 
— something  more  intense  than  physical  cowardice — possessed  his  brain, 
and  made  his  temples  throb,  while  his  heart  grew  cold — colder — almost 
lifeless. 

"  I  will  go,"  he  faltered — "The  first  letter  to  the  crevice  in  the  rock; 
the  second  to  the  horseman  in  gray ;  the  third  to  the  person  in  the 
Haunted  House.    You  see  I  remember — I  will  go — I  will  go — " 

Grasping  the  letters,  he  retreated  toward  the  door,  his  dilating  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  unknown. 

"  It  is  well,"  said  the  silvery  voice,  "  and  mark  you — after  the  third 
letter  is  delivered  return  to  the  Wissahikon.  I  will  need  your  clerical 
services,  before  the  night  is  over.    You  will  meet  me — " 

He  drew  near  the  trembling  wretch  and  whispered  a  word  in  his  ear-. 

m  Yes — yes — I'll  be  there — I  will,"  cried  Jacopo — "  Good  afternoon, 
good  afternoon — " 

He  disappeared  through  the  doorway,  but  in  an  instant  his  face  was 
seen  again,  and  his  shrill  voice  resounded  through  the  room— 

"Pardon  me — "  he  cried,  as  his  visage  projected  into  the  chamber, 
"  But  if  it's  not  an  impertinent  question,  how  the  devil  did  you  get  into 
this  room  ? 

He  did  not  pause  for  an  answer  for  there  was  something  in  the  eye  of 
the  stranger,  that  made  his  heart  contract  and  dilate  by  turns.  He  turned 
wildly  away. 

Grasping  the  three  letters  with  one  hand,  while  the  other  crushed  the 
three-cornered  hat  over  his  face,  he  hurried  down  the  dark  stairway,  into 
the  lower  room,  and,  in  an  instant  stood  on  the  threshold  stone,  with  the 
light  of  the  summer  sun  upon  his  terror  stricken  face. 

He  did  not  pause  for  a  moment,  to  glance  toward  the  arbor,  nor  did  he 
think  of  the  white-haired  old  man,  who  but  a  little  while  ago,  was 
menaced  by  the  knife,  in  the  hand  of  the  frenzied  negro. 

But  passing  around  the  farm  house,  he  crossed  the  barn  yard,  sprung 
over  the  fence,  and  with  unsteady  strides  hurried  through  a  cornfield 
toward  a  wood,  which  appeared  at  the  distance  of  some  two  hundred 
yards.  Once  or  twice  he  turned  his  affrighted  face  over  his  shoulder — 
cast  a  stealthy  glance  at  the  old  fabric  resting  so  calmly  in  the  sun — and 
then  urged  onward  with  accelerated  speed.  It  was  not  altogether  a 
solemn  thing,  to  see  him  plunging  in  amid  the  rows  of  corn,  his  dark 
skirts  streaming  behind  him,  while  the  shadow  of  his  form  was  flung  far 
over  the  field — like  the  grotesque  profile  of  an  immense  spider. 

He  soon  attained  the  wood,  and  with  a  bound  plunged  into  its  shadows. 
Through  the  thickly  gathered  brushwood,  along  the  mossy  spots  of  ver- 


382  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

dure,  now  arrested  by  the  branch  of  a  tree,  now  stumbling  over  some  gray- 
old  rock,  Jacopo,  otherwise  known  as  the  Philosopher,  held  on  his  way. 
Had  you  seen  him,  you  would  have  sworn  it  was  for  a  wager — this  night- 
mare race — a  match  between  his  Legs  and  Time. 

At  last  panting  and  blowing,  his  face  covered  with  perspiration  ;  his 
dark  attire  strown  with  fragments  of  leaves  and  briars,  he  sank  exhausted 
at  the  foot  of  a  rock,  and  with  a  profound  sigh,  gave  himself  up  to  his 
Destiny. 

"Let  'em  take  me,"  he  said,  between  his  gasps — "  I'm  ready.  They 
can't  do  more  than  hang  me.  To  think  those  legs  should  ever  come  to 
the  gallows  !" 

From  some  obscure  recess  of  his  capacious  pockets,  he  drew  forth  an 
immense  handkerchief — silken  in  texture,  and  indigo  in  color — and 
polished  his  streaming  visage  until  it  shone  again. 

Possessed  by  some  fatal  idea,  he  evidently  expected  to  be  seized, — 
chained — and  dragged  away  from  this  solitude  by  merciless  hands. 

"Ah  !  I  know  his  face — have  seen  it  afore.  The  devil  himself  is  a 
fool  to  him — he  might  set  up  school,  and  all  the  imps  of  darkness  would 
take  lessons  in  devilty  from  him  /" 

Completely  exhausted,  with  his  back  against  the  rock,  and  his  limbs 
stretched  out  upon  the  sand,  in  the  shape  of  the  letter  V — Jacopo  the 
Philosopher  became  the  victim  of  various  terrors.  His  mouth,  never  too 
small,  expanded  in  a  chronic  grimace  ;  he  polished  his  face  with  the 
indigo  handkerchief ;  fanned  his  heated  brow  with  the  three-cornered  hat. 

"  To  go  over  a  fellow's  life  in  that  style,  and  after  one  has  reformed 
and  turned  from  the  error  of  his  ways,  to  rub  up  old  sins,  and  make  one's 
tender  conscience  bleed  in  a  dozen  places  !  It  was  ungentlemanly — ah  ! 
Oh  !    How  cursed  hot  it  is  !" 

And  while  our  Philosopher,  agitated  by  the  memory  of  these  '  old  sins,' 
and  perchance  by  some  indefinable  idea  of  punishment,  surrendered  him- 
self to  the  cheering  influences  of  the  indigo  handkerchief — used  as  a 
towel — and  the  three-cornered  hat — transformed  into  a  fan — the  letters 
which  had  been  consigned  to  him,  lay  scattered  upon  the  sward. 

The  sight  of  these  letters,  gleaming  on  the  sand  in  a  wandering  ray, 
restored  Jacopo  to  life  and  reason. 

"  I  have  a  duty  to  perform.  What  human  being  has  n't  ?  If  somebody 
chooses  to  turn  me  into  a  post  office,  it  is  my  duty — posterity  expects  it 
— to  see  that  I  don't  carry  any  thing  that  will  do  harm  to  even  the  hum- 
blest member  of  the  great  family  of  man." 

And,  Jacopo  forgetting  all  his  terrors,  in  the  consciousness  of  duty 
raised  the  letters,  and  began  to  examine  them  with  a  searching  glance. 

<  To  the  King'— only  wafered.  1  To  the  Duke' — ditto.  To— Blank- 
sealed,  as  I'm  an  honest  man,  and  with  a  Coronet  too,  and  the  letters  r.  l. 
What  the  mischief  does  r.  l.  mean  ?    Can't  be  his  name  ?" 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  383 

For  a  moment  Jacopo  cogitated  profoundly  with  the  tip  of  his  finger 
applied  to  the  tip  of  his  nose. 

"R.  L.  !  Reginald  Lyndulfe  !"  he  cried,  "And  in  the  name  of  the 
whole  family  of  saints,  what  has  this  person  to  do  with  my  young  Lord 
of  Lyndulfe  ?    Why  the  thing  becomes  mysterious !" 

Satisfied  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost,  the  Philosopher  went  to  work  in 
a  calm,  business-like  manner.  There  was  method  in  his  virtuous 
curiosity.  First  he  listened,  turning  his  gaze  from  side  to  side.  All  was 
still — the  foliage  of  that  forest  cover  shut  him  out  from  the  world.  Next, 
moistening  the  wafers  of  the  first  and  second  letters,  by  applying  them  to 
his  lips,  he  very  adroitly  slipped  the  long  nail  of  his  forefinger  underneath 
each  wafer,  and  ere  a  second  had  passed,  his  virtuous  labor  was  rewarded 
by  the  sight  of  certain  lines  written  in  a  firm,  round  hand. 

This  is  the  first  letter — 

To  the  King— 

At  twelve  to-night.  The  place— the  Block  House  of  the  Wissahi- 
kon.  You  pursue  this  lane,  cross  the  stream,  and  then  turn  to  the  right. 
It  is  but  little  more  than  half  a  mile  from  the  place  where  you  will  find 
these  ivcrrds. 

This  epistle  without  date  or  signature,  filled  Jacopo  with  indescribable 
wonderment. 

"  It  appears  to  me,"  the  thought  crossed  the  mind  of  the  Philosopher, 
M  That  those  enigmatical  words,  constitute  the  dressing  of  some  nice  little 
Plot,  which  known  to  me,  might  be  honestly  turned  into  coin." 

And,  Jacopo  sealed  the  letter  again,  and  then  with  his  nail  removed  the 
wafer  of  the  second  epistle. 

To  the  Duke — 

The  son  of  Gaspard  Michael  lives. 

Jacopo  read,  and  his  small  eyes  projected  from  their  sockets. 

"  ' Gaspard-Michael /'  "  he  echoed,  turning  the  letter  in  his  fingers,  as 
though  he  expected  a  nineteen-pounder  to  drop  from  its  folds.  "  '  To  the 
Duke  /'  Well,  w-e-ll !  Why  is  it  always  my  fate  to  be  mixed  up  in 
the  affairs  of  nations  ?  Unhappy  Jacopo  !  Sighing  forever,  for  a  nice 
little  cot  under  a  hill,  with  a  quiet  little  wife,  three  or  four  children,  and 
some  pigs  and  chickens, — and  always  whirled  away  from  this  sweet 
image  of  domesticity,  into  the  great  Maelstrom  of  circumstance  !" 

With  this  profound  reflection,  Jacopo  resealed  the  second  letter,  and 
turned  his  attention  to  the  third. 

"  Sealed,  and  with  coat  of  arms  and  cypher  !  Shall  I  break  the  seal  ? 
Miserable  position  for  a  conscientious  man  !    If  I  break  the  seal,  I  am 


384 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR 


sure  to  be  found  out,  and  if  I  don't  I  shall  remain  ignorant  of  the  contents 
of  the  letter." 

The  Philosopher  was  puzzled.    Turning  the  epistle  in  various  ways, 
he  endeavored  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  its  contents,  but  in  vain. 
"  Shall  I  break  the  seal  ?" 

Before  him  rose  the  vision  of  that  pale  visage,  lighted  by  the  intensely 
brilliant  eyes.  Jacopo  trembled,  and  the  warm  color  vanished  from  his  face. 

Then  he  looked  at  the  letter  lovingly — with  a  sort  of  mingled  desire 
and  fear — like  an  epicure  surveying  a  delicious  morsel,  which  his  physician 
tells  him,  it  will  be  death  to  eat,  or  a  vagrant  cur  observing  a  steak,  which 
is  suspended  just  one  inch  beyond  his  reach. 
'I  will  break  it  I"  said  Jacopo,  and — 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  yell.  Cold,  trembling,  seized  once  more 
with  abject  fear,  he  grasped  his  hat  and  the  letters,  and,  without  looking 
once  behind  him  darted  madly  through  the  bushes. 

For  even  as  the  words,  '  I  will  break  it !'  rose  to  his  lips,  he  felt  a  cold, 
hard  hand  laid  upon  his  shoulder. 

Afraid  to  look  behind  him,  lest  he  might  once  more  behold  the  pallid 
face  and  burning  eyes,  he  shrunk  away  from  that  hand,  and  was  gone  into 
the  thickest  of  the  forest  ere  a  second  might  be  told. 

He  did  not  pause  in  his  flight,  until  he  stood  at  the  forks  of  the  road, 
where  the  4  township  line'  was  crossed  by  the  lane,  leading  from  the  Wis- 
sahikon  to  the  village  of  Germantown. 

It  was  a  silent  and  desolate  spot,  centred  in  the  midst  of  thickets 
backed  by  the  forest. 

The  hot  dust  of  the  road  was  contrasted  with  the  foliage  of  cedar  and 
the  pine,  scattered  on  either  side.  Toward  the  west,  the  lane  descending, 
a  hill  was  lost  in  the  mazes  of  the  woods.  But  in  the  east  it  wound 
among  cultivated  fields,  now  skirting  some  wood-crowded  hill,  now  ling- 
ering in  the  lap  of  some  brook-watered  valley,  until  it  approached  that 
line  of  gardens  and  orchards,  amid  whose  verdure  and  blossoms  appeared 
the  dark  gray  tenements  of  Germantown. 

Jacopo  panting  up  the  hill,  beheld  the  cedar  which  stood  alone  at  the 
forks  of  the  road,  while  in  the  shadow  of  its  branches  appeared  the  massy 
granite  rock. 

"Dev'lish  odd  post  office"  he  said,  grinning  through  his  terror,  as  he 
inserted  the  letter,  in  a  crevice  of  this  rock,  and  secured  it  by  placing  a 
small  stone  upon  its  superscription  :  "  Should  like  to  see  the  individual 
who  is  destined  to  pay  the  postage." 

He  started — the  sound  of  horse's  hoofs  struck  his  ear. 

"  It  was  a  hand — I'll  swear  it,  a  hand  of  iron,"  he  cried  as  the  memory 
of  his  last  fright  returned  in  full  force,  and  without  a  moment's  delay,  h« 
concealed  himself  from  sight,  under  a  clump  of  small  cedars,  near  the 
roadside. 


'1  HE  MONK  OF  THE  W ISSAtilftOJN .  bS5 
He  could  hear,  although  he  could  not  see. 

Protected  from  all  observation,  by  the  thickly  grown  bushes,  he  listened, 
while  his  heart  mounted  to  his  throat. 

The  echo  of  horse's  hoofs  grew  more  distinct,  Jacopo  crouching  on 
hands  and  feet  endeavored  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  unknown  rider,  but 
in  vain. 

"He  is  coming  near — nearer!  From  the  direction  of  Germantown, 
too, — ha  !  Here  he  is,  and  I  cannot  see  him.  Hello  !  The  horse  slops — 
near  the  cedar — hark  !  The  rider  dismounts — 0,  for  a  glimpse,  only  a 
glimpse  !  As  I'm  a  human  being  he's  meddling  with  my  post  office  — 
hey  !" 

It  was  true.  The  unknown  horseman  whom  he  could  hear,  although 
he  could  not  see  him,  dismounted  near  the  cedar  tree,  and  for  a  moment 
a  breathless  silence  ensued. 

Jacopo  moved  ;  he  was  determined  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  stranger. 
"Who's  there!"  said  a  deep  clear  voice. 

Jacopo  was  stone.  Gathering  himself  in  the  smallest  possible  compass, 
he  held  his  breath,  and  awaited  the  termination  of  this  incident,  in  a  spasm 
of  mortal  terror. 

"There's  a  bullet  through  my  ribs  —  I  foresee  it  plainly,"  he  thought, 
but  dared  not  speak,  as  he  crouched  in  the  shadows. 

"Who's  there  ?" — again  the  voice  was  heard. 

You  may  take  my  word  for  it,  that  our  Philosopher  did  not  reply. 

Suddenly  the  tramp  of  horse's  feet  was  heard  again  ;  Jacopo's  heart 
bounded  with  joy.  Those  sounds  grew  faint  and  more  distant ;  he  dared 
to  dash  the  branches  aside,  and  steal  a  glimpse  after  the  unknown. 

Far  down  the  lane,  where  it  lay  in  full  sunlight,  just  before  it  was  lost 
among  the  woods  toward  the  Wissahikin,  Jacopo  saw  a  grey  horse,  whose 
rider's  tall  form  was  wrapped  in  a  long  and  drooping  military  cloak.  That 
rider's  face  was  turned  away,  and  even  as  Jacopo  gazed,  from  his  retreat, 
the  grey  horse  turning  a  point  of  the  road,  disappeared  in  the  shadows  of 
the  forest. 

U  Rather  warm  for  a  military  cloak,  my  respected  friend,"  said  the  Phi* 
losopher,  as  he  gathered  up  his  spider-like  limbs  and  crawled  from  his 
retreat.  "  Let  me  see  whether  the  sanctity  of  our  post  office  has  been 
violated  " 

Looking  stealthily  over  his  shoulder, — listening  for  the  faintest  echo  of 
a  footstep — Jacopo  drew  near  the  rock,  and  crouching  on  hands  and  knees 
examined  the  crevice.  The  small  stone  which  had  secured  the  letter,  lay 
on  the  sod;  the  crevice  was  empty,  and  of  course  the  letter  had  dis- 
appeared. 

Jacopo  had  been  simply  puzzled  and  frightened  before  this  discovery  ; 
how  he  was  utterly  confounded. 

He  did  not  even  utter  an  ejaculation.    Seating  himself  by  the  wood- 

25 


385 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


side,  with  his  three-cornered  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes,  he  silently  contem- 
plated the  mysterious  events  of  the  last  hour. 

"  First,  I  find  out,  the  guilt  of  the  good  old  Peter  of  the  white  beard. 
Then  the  Devil  appears  to  me,  and  converts  me  into  a  perepatelic  post 
office.  Urged  by  a  simple  impulse  of  duty,  I  am  engaged  in  opening  the 
Devil's  correspondence,  when  a  hand  is  laid  on  my  shoulder.  Last  of  all, 
a  mysterious  horseman,  violates  the  sanctity  of  the  rock,  and  steels  the 
devil's  letter." 

These  thoughts  stirred  the  Philosopher's  soul  into  speech  : 

"  Such  is  the  case.  I  will  submit  it  to  a  committee  of  any  three  intel- 
ligent gentlemen,  whether  any  thing  like  this,  was  ever  heard  of  afore,  or 
can  be  again,  within  the  compass  of  three  thousand  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  solar  years." 

How  far  the  Philosopher's  reveries  would  have  led  him,  had  he  been 
suffered  to  pursue  the  subject,  we  cannot  tell.  His  meditations  were  sud* 
denly  brought  to  an  end  by  a  new  object  of  arrangement. 

A  fragment  of  paper,  looking  for  all  the  world,  like  a  stray  relic  of  some 
forgotten  letter,  appeared  right  before  the  eyes  of  Jacopo,  nestling  in  the 
roadside  dust.  This  you  will  say,  was  not  very  wonderful,  but  there  was 
a  name  written  upon  the  fragment,  which  at  once  held  Jacopo — dumb  and 
without  motion — like  the  victim  of  a  magician's  spell. 

The  name  was  very  simple — "  George  Washington" 

"  I  have  heard  of  it  afore,"  said  Jacopo,  as  a  singular  thought  began  to 
take  shape  in  his  active  brain,  "  And  now  for  Germantown." 

Placing  the  fragment  in  a  side  pocket,  and  carefully  grasping  the  remain- 
ing letters,  he  stood  ready  for  his  journey. 

He  brushed  the  dust  and  leaves  from  his  attire,  arranged  his  white  cra- 
vat with  an  exactness  truly  ministerial,  and  then  surveyed  his  shadow,  as 
it  lay  upon  the  roadside  dust,  in  all  its  native  elegance. 

"  That  graceful  rotundity  supported  by  those  slender  yet  graceful 
columns,  reminds  one  of  the  terrestrial  Globe,  resting  upon  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules.    Quite  a  geographical  figure,  I  vow  !" 

Turning  toward  the  south-western  wood,  he  remembered  the  unknown 
hand,  with  a  shudder. 

And  yet  at  that  moment,  by  the  very  rock,  where  the  Philosopher  had 
felt  the  hand,  crouched  the  figure  of  a  blind  Negro,  with  a  knife  in  his 
tremulous  grasp. 

"  It  am  de  berry  debbil  and  no  mistake,"  he  soliloquized  —  "  He  pull 
my  hand,  jist  as  I  was  a-gwain  to  stick  de  ole  boy.  Den  I  run  into  de 
woods,  and  feel  my  way,  and  lay  dis  hand  on  de  debbil's  shoulder.  Sorra 
mighty  gosh  !  Dese  tings  make  an  ole  black  colo'd  man  afeard  !" 

Little  did  Jacobo  imagine, — as  he  stood  wondering  and  trembling  at  the 
forks  of  the  road — that  the  unknown  hand,  laid  upon  his  shoulder  in  the 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  387 

woody  covert,  was  nothing  but  the  hand  of  his  dark-skinned  friend,  fami- 
liarly called,  Black  Sam. 

««  Doubtless  it  was  the  Devil,"  said  Jacopo,  and  turned  his  steps  toward 
Germantown. 

A  pleasant  walk  it  was,  along  the  lane,  which  leading  over  hill  and 
valley, — among  fields  and  pastures,  dotted  with  cattle,  or  set  off  by  massy 
barns,— now  down  into  this  dell,  where  the  brook  was  ever  singing — now 
up  this  hill,  whose  top  covered  with  chesnut,  oak  and  maple,  was  living 
with  the  voices  of  the  summer  birds — made  the  heart  dream  of  Eden,  and 
the  lip  murmur  "  Paradise  !" 

Even  Jacopo  philosophically  hardened  into  baseness,  and  rich  only  in 
memories  of  crime,  was  somewhat  won  by  the  summer  loveliness  of  that 
sequestered  lane. 

"  Fresher  than  Italy  !"  he  cried,  as  surmounting  a  hill,  he  saw  the  long 
line  of  dark  gray  fabrics,  peeping  from  a  chaos  of  leaves  and  blossoms 

Then  down  the  hill,  into  a  dell,  the  lane  wandered  with  rustic  walls  of 
stone,— crowned  with  wild  flowers— on  either  hand,  and  the  breeze  blow- 
ing freshly  all  the  while,  with  its  varied  perfumes,  stolen  from  the  shrubs 
by  the  water-side.  There  was  a  bridge  across  the  brook  which  mur- 
mured in  the  hollow  of  the  dell;  a  bridge  formed  of  a  few  rude  planks, 
with  wild  glass  growing  in  every  crevice. 

Jacopo  lingered  there  for  a  single  instant. 

A  green  meadow,  watered  by  the  brook,  and  rising  gently  until  it  was 
lost  in  an  apple  orchard.  Sunlight,  very  rich  and  hazy,  upon  the  heighths, 
and  in  the  valley,  shadows  deep  and  solemn.  The  air  full  of  bees,  hum- 
ming their  kimmer  song,  and  the  great  sky,  arching  far  above  without  a 
cloud. 

Something  there  was  in  this  scene,  that  stole  imperceptibly  into  Jacopo's 
heart,  as  resting  his  arms  upon  the  rude  rail  of  the  bridge,  he  drew  in  the 
fragrance  and  music  of  the  place,  as  you  would  drink  a  cup  of  rich  old 
wine.  May  be  in  that  moment,  some  ember  of  a  better  nature,  flamed  up 
within  his  heart,  and  by  the  sudden  light  he  read,  how  base  and  cowardly 
had  been  his  life  ;  how  lost  and  sunken,  from  every  manly  purpose,  his 
prostituted  soul.  May  be  ?  Yes,  it  was  even  so.  For  although  no  tear 
shone  on  his  cheek,  nor  although  no  tremor  of  the  lip  altered  a  single 
throb  of  sincere  feeling,  yet  for  an  instant,  the  heart  of  the  degraded  Man, 
went  back  to  some  dear  nook  of  Childhood,  and  over  the  dreary  wastes 
of  memory,  he  caught  one  golden  gleam  from  other  Days. 

How  shall  we  account  for  this  gleam  of  purer  feeling  ?  Was  it  but  a 
ray  from  the  ashes  of  his  own  soul,  or  was  it,  a  wandering  beam,  from  the 
other  World  ?  Perchance,  even  in  that  moment,  some  pure  Spirit — invi- 
sible to  the  gross  eyes  of  sense — came  with  sudden  steps  to  his  side,  and 
spoke  to  his  sealed  ear,  a  Word  from  God. 

In  saying  that  this  Man  felt  purer,  better,  for  a  single  moment,  as  the 


338  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

religion  of  that  silent  dell  melted  into  his  soul,  we  profoundly  beg  the 
pardon  of  those  learned  and  pious  people,  who  maintain,  that  Human 
Nature  is  all  Corrupt ;  born  to  be  wicked  ;  and  destined  to  grow  fat  on 
sin.  Your  forgiveness  gentle  folks.  Total  Depravity  is  a  comfortable 
digma,  and  we  would  not  for  a  moment  rob  you  of  the  holy  consolation 
which  flows  from  the  belief,  that  the  Human  Heart — even  the  heart  of  the 
Babe,  resting  so  smilingly  upon  its  Mother's  hear* — is  nothing  but  a  Laba- 
ratory  of  Crimes. 

Forgive  us,  if  we  believe  somewhat  differently. 

Even  this  wretch,  who  leaning  upon  the  rail  of  the  rustic  bridge,  sur- 
veys the  silent  dell, — this  wretch  who  embodies  in  his  own  person,  all  the 
craft  and  cunning,  the  menial  vice  and  livened  baseness  which  forms  the 
very  Religion  of  modern  Civilization — appears  to  us,  not  altogether  lost 
and  wicked  ;  not  altogether  corrupt  and  depraved. 

Search  his  heart,  horrified  as  it  is  by  the  disease  of  selfishness,  and  you 
will  find  a  throb  of  purer  feeling,  beating  even  there, — even  there,  you  will 
discover  the  pulse  of  a  holier,— yes — a  God-like  nature. 

If  there  exists  such  a  thing  as  Total  Depravity  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
you  will  find  it  in  the  heart  of  the  man,  who  has  so  brutalized  his  nature, 
as  to  be  able  to  believe  the  Dogma. 

For  while  the  Great  Father  of  Us  All,  hold  the  stars  in  the  hollow  of 
his  hand,  no  man  can  assert,  that  He  has  created  one  being,  totally  de- 
praved,— only  one — without  having  the  Lie  which  he  utters,  flung  back 
into  his  face  by  every  star  that  shines  in  the  midnight  sky,  by  every  blos- 
som that  floats  in  the  summer  air, — by  the  angel-eyes  of  childhood  smiling 
some  giimpses  of  Heaven,  even  into  the  soul  of  Jesus. 

Jacopo  lingered  there  until  the  shadows  began  to  grow  longer,  under  the 
orchard  trees,  and  at  last  with  something  like  a  sigh  went  in  silence  up  the 
hill.  The  hill-top  gained,  the  free  sun  and  air  upon  his  face  once  more, 
the  town  in  sight,  its  roofs  framed  in  foliage,  —he  was  himself  again,  and 
all  traces  of  better  feeling,  had  passed  away  with  the  silence  and  shadow 
of  the  grassy  dell. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.' 


389 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOURTH. 

ADVENTURES  OF  JACOPO. 

"  Germantown  !"  soliloquized  Jacopo,  advancing  with  a  most  portentous 
stride — "  Where  witches  are  plenty  as  cabbages,  and  ghosts  come  thick  as 
onions.  I  must  break  upon  the  vision  of  the  unsophisticated  villagers, 
gently,  very  gent-l-y,  and  yet  imposing  as  a  full  moon  seen  through  a  fog." 

And  he  passed  rapidly  along  the  lane. 

There  came  green  fields,  full  of  the  music  of  bees  and  the  fragrance  of 
new  mown  hay.  There  came  gardens  too,  bordered  with  fruit  trees, — the 
cherry,  the  peach,  the  apple  and  the  pear, — and  with  little  children  and 
brown-cheeked  peasant  girls,  singing  and  laughing  among  the  vine-covered 
arbors.  There  came  an  old  cottage,  with  the  roof  bent  down  by  the  gnarled 
limb  of  a  great  oak  tree,  and  its  solitary  window,  adorned  with  a  single 
flower,  set  in  a  broken  pitcher.  And  on  the  stone  before  the  low  door-  ' 
way,  underneath  the  music  of  the  restling  leaves,  was  a  gaunt  old  man, 
with  a  face  as  brown  as  a  russet  apple,  hair  white  as  snow,  and  garb  as 
poor  as  very  Poverty.  And  as  he  turned  his  face, — for  he  was  startled 
by  the  sound  of  the  coming  footstep — the  sun  shone  upon  it,  and  gave  a 
golden  glow  to  his  cold,  dead  eyeballs. 

He  was  blind,  and  poor  and  old,  and  yet  before  his  cabin  door,  he  sat, 
pressing  his  hands  together,  and  turning  his  sightless  eyes  to  the  sun,  as 
if  tho'  he  was  glad  that  he  was  alone,  and  singing  all  the  while  in  a 
cracked  voice,  some  words  of  a  rude  German  Song. 

Jacopo  glanced  upon  him  with  grimace, — wondered  ".what  the  deuce  he 
was  singing  about '' — and  without  a  word,  passed  on  his  way. 

Soon  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  lane,  and  stood  in  the  solitary  street  of 
Germantown. 

Jacopo  sank  on  a  bench,  by  the  roadside,  and  for  some  moments  con- 
templated the  novelty  and  freshness  of  the  scene  in  silence,  and  yet  with 
frequent  ejaculations  of  delight. 

He  gazed  to  the  south.  The  dusty  road,  in  some  places  shadowed  by 
rows  of  trees,  in  others  reddened  by  gleams  of  sunlight,  descended  the 
slope  of  a  long  hill,  and  far  to  the  south,  was  lost  to  view  under  an  arch 
of  foliage.  There  were  tenements  of  wood  and  stone  on  either  "hand  ; 
here  a  cottage,  with  its  gable-end  toward  the  street,  and  a  rustic  porch 
before  the  door ;  there  a  two-storied  edifice  with  steep  roof  and  narrow 
windows,  and  a  cool,  quiet  garden,  sheltered  from  the  roadside  dust  by 
trees.  Altogether,  that  road  stretching  to  the  south,  presented  an  impres- 
sive perspective  of  cottages,  gardens  and  trees,  reposing  half  in  shadow, 
half  in  sunlight,  with  a  clear  blue  sky  above. 


393 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


Jacopo  turned  his  eye  to  the  north.  A  wide  and  grassy  lawn,  seperated 
from  the  road  by  a  stone  wall,  and  dotted  with  elms  and  oaks,  with  a 
gray  old  mansion  in  the  background,  slept  in  the  beams  of  the  after- 
noon sun. 

That  lawn,  reposing  so  quietly  in  the  sunlight,  was  soon  destined  to  be- 
come holy^ground — drenched  by  the  blood  of  martyrs,  its  grass  and 
flowers — its  dark  gray  mansion  rent  by  cannon  shot,  and  crowded  with 
dead — it  was  soon  to  be  known  in  history  as  the  Battle-Field  of  German- 
town. 

Opposite  the  bench  on  which  our  Philosopher  rested,  appeared  a  two- 
storied  mansion,  which  seemed  invested  with  a  peculiar  atmosphere  of 
silence  and  isolation.  Among  the  homes  of  that  quiet  hamlet,  it  looked 
sad  and  deserted.  The  shutters  were  fast  closed ;  there  was  grass  in  the 
nooks  of  the  high  stone  steps  before  the  dusky  hall  door;  the  steep  roof 
was  covered  with  green  moss  and  withered  leaves.  It  looked  as  though 
no  foot  had  passed  its  threshold  for  many  years. 

On  the  northern  side,  the  foliage  of  its  neglected  garden  overhung  a 
high  wall,  whose  gray  stones  were  half-concealed  by  a  wild  and  luxuriant 
vine.  And  on  the  south,  built  half  way  up  the  gloomy  gable  of  the  man- 
sion, a  one-storied  cabin  was  seen,  with  a  little  garden  plot  between  it  and 
the  road,  and  the  wide-spreading  branches  of  a  solitary  oak  stretching 
above  its  roof. 

Through  the  leaves  of  the  oak,  the  smoke  of  the  cabin  chimney  wound 
into  the  sky,  shining  and  glowing  against  the  blue  heavens  as  it  caught  the 
radiance  of  the  sun. 

"  Well !"  cried  Jacopo,  "  That  cabin  under  the  big  tree,  looks  like  a 
solitary  chicken  under. the  wing  of  a  fat  hen,  while  this  gloomy  mansion — 
ugh  !  looks  like  a  frozen  night-mare." 

Arising  from  the  bench  he  crossed  the  road, — surveyed  the  silent  man- 
sion with  a  careful  scrutiny — and  then  passed  on,  until  he  reached  the 
neatly  white-washed  pale  fence,  in  front  of  the  cabin. 

"  Iio  !  Ho  !  A  table  under  the  oak — bottles  and  mugs,  and  two  or 
three  buglers  taking  the  world  easy  !  I  hope  I'm  not  intruding  upon  a 
family  party — " 

With  his  hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  gate,  he  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
uncertain  whether  to  enter  or  pass  on,  when  his  eye  was  arrested  by  a 
board  nailed  upon  the  bark  of  the  tree,  and  bearing  in  remarkable  charac- 
ters a*  most  mysterious  inscription. 

Bier  &  Si'DeR. 

These  enigmatical  characters  seemed  intended  to  convey  the  idea  that 
Beer  and  Cider  were  to  be  obtained  for  coin,  somewhere  in  the  vicinity 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


391 


of  the  oak.  Encouraged  by  this  view  of  the  case,  Jacop  lifted  the  latch 
and  entered. 

The  three  villagers  seated  around  the  table,  with  pewter  mugs  in  their 
hands,  did  not  hear  his  approach.  Bending  over  the  table,  their  heads 
laid  together ;  they  maintained  a  low-toned  and  earnest  conversation. 

Our  Philosopher  paused  and  listened : 

*•  Chon  you  may  dependt  it's  a  fact,"  said  one  of  the  three,  who  ap- 
peared in  shirt  sleeves  and  red  waistcoat — "  Dis  house  has  bin  shut  up 
dese  twenty  or  dirty  years.  Dey  do  say,  de  man  as  owned  it,  soldt  him- 
self to  de  defil.— " 

Jacopo  started,  and  drew  a  step  nearer. 

"  Now  Jake,  you  haint  got  the  rights  of  the  story,"  responded  "  Chon" 
or  John,  whose  sharp  features  were  half-hidden  by  an  extensive  wool-hat. 
— "  The  house  is  owned  by  somebody  away  there  in  the  old  eountry,  and 
there's  a  lawsuit  about  it  afore  somebody  they  call  Chancery,  or  some 
sich  name,  and  of  course  it's  shet  up  until  the  case  is  decided.  What  do 
you  say,  Pete  ?" 

"  Pete"  was  a  solemn  little  man,  with  an  apron  on  his  chest,  and  some 
three  or  four  days  beard  on  his  face. — We  may  here  remark,  that  in  our 
researches  into  the  Ancient  Records,  we  have  never  been  able  to  ascertain 
the  full  names  of  those  three  respectable  individuals  ;  they  are  simply 
called  Chon,  and  Jake,  and  Peter.  It  appears  however,  that  "  Jake"  was 
a  man  of  substance,  well-to-do  in  the  worldly  sense  ;  Pete  a  shoemaker, 
and  Chon  a  man-of-all-work  about  somebody's  farm. 

As  Pete  replied,  our  friend  Jacopo  still  unobserved,  drew  a  step  nearer: 
"  There's  been  lights  seen  in  that  house.     Queer  noises  heer'd. 
Rattlin'  of  a  chain.    Say  somebody  was  murdered.    Thirty  years  ago, 
come  next  Christmas.    It's  his  ghost.    The  man  that  was  murdered. 
They  say  so." 

Lest  the  remarks  of  Peter  should  appear  broken  or  abrupt,  it  may  as 
well  be  stated,  that  he  punctuated  with  his  pewter  mug,  applying  it  to  his 
lips  wherever  we  have  placed  a  full  stop. 

"  Ish  it  possible  !"  ejaculated  Jake,  with  eyes  like  saucers. 

"  They  say  so,"  whispered  Pete,  again  punctuating  with  his  mug. 
It  taint, — I  tell  you,  it  taint,"  remarked  Chon,  fanning  himself  with 
his  wool  hat,  "  As  to  its  bein'  ha'nted,  I'm  not  the  man  to  deny  that,  for 
we  all  know  that  ghosts  in  some  houses  are  thick  as  hops,  but  as  to  it's 
bein'  owned  by  a  man  that  sold  hisself  to  the  Devil,  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Rash  man  !"  said  a  shrill,  screeching  voice. 

With  one  bound  the  three  started  to  their  feet,  and  beheld  Jacopo 
attired  in  solemn  black,  with  his  hands  extended  in  the  air,  and  his  mouth 
composed  in  an  expression  of  remarkable  severity. 

"  Rash  man  !"  he  continued,  while  the  three  stricken  into  statues,  lis- 
tened with  vacant  amazement — "As  an  humble  clergyman,  I  feel  bound 


392  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

to  protest  against  your  unbelief.  You  doubt  that  a  man  can  sell  himself 
to  the  devil  ?  My  young  friend,  I  pity  you  !  Why  in  the  course  of  my 
journeying  around  this  scene  of  terrestrial  vanity,  I  have  met  with  no  less 
than  six  hundred  persons,  who  acknowledged  with  tears,  that  they  had 
sold  themselves  to  the  devil. —  They  had  married  old  maids"  he  said  in 
an  under  tone. 

"  It's  a  Dominie  !"  cried  Jake. 

"I  don't  deny  it,"  said  Chon,  awed  and  abashed  by  the  reproof  of  the 
reverend  man,  "  But  as  to  this  house  bein'  owned  by  sich  a  person — " 

"  Shet  up  Chon.  Don't  you  see  the  Minister's  agin  you.  Take  a  seat, 
sir, —  travelled  far  to  day?" 

Pete  brushed  a  chair  with  his  apron,  and  placed  it  before  Jacopo. 

That  reverend  personage  was  now  in  his  glory.  Calmly  surveying  the 
three,  he  begged  them  in  a  pleasant  voice  to  be  seated  once  more,  adding 
with  a  sweet  smile  that  he  was  not  at  all  angry,  but  felt  rather  charitable 
than  otherwise. 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  my  little  flock,"  he  continued,  as  he  took  a  seat 
at  the  table — "I  have  a  parish  in  the  back  settlements  among  the  Injin's 
beyond  Carlisle.    You  never  heard  of  Hog's  Run,  did  you?" 

They  had  never  heard  of  this  classic  locality  ;  and  Jacopo  leaning  back 
in  his  chair  and  resting  his  hands  upon  his  paunch,  concluded  his  remarks 
by  asking  for  a  little  cider. 

"  Betsy  !"  exclaimed  Jake,  "  Dis  way,  dis  w-a-y  !  Dere's  a  gentleman 
here  as  wants  a  glass  of  siter." 

And  in  a  moment  "Betsy,"  the  proprietor  of  the  roadside  cottage,  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  holding  a  bowl  of  fragrant  October  in  her  hand. 

Betsy  was  by  no  means  old  or  thin,  or  ugly.  A  bouncing  dame  of  some 
thirty-five  years,  with  very  small  bright  eyes  shining  in  a  face  round  as 
the  full  moon,  and  blooming  as  a  garden  of  roses.  Her  capacious  bust 
was  enveloped  in  a  snow-white  handkerchief,  and  her  dark  linsey  skirt 
descending  but  half  way  below  the  knee,  left  exposed  to  view  a  pair  of 
ankles,  which  encased  in  home-spun  stockings,  seemed  altogether  too 
slender  for  her  luxuriant  form.  Her  feet,  too,  enveloped  in  course  leather 
shoes,  did  not  seem  at  all  adapted  to  bear  the  weight  of  so  much  substan- 
tial womanhood,  and  as  for  her  hands,  small  and  white  and  fat,  with  dim- 
ples sprinkled  all  over  the  joints,  they  were  altogether  too  diminitive  in 
comparison  with  her  arms,  which  bared  from  the  shoulder,  showed  their 
clear  skin  and  full  round  outline  freely  to  the  sunlight. 

On  Betsy's  chesnut-brown  hair,  parted  neatly  over  her  full  moon  face 
a  small  muslin  cap  nestled  like  a  bird  in  its  nest;  her  cheeks,  her  chin, 
— her  neck — whiter  even  than  the  snowy  handkerchief  which  bound  her 
bust— were  scattered  with  dimples,  every  one  of  which  laughed  like  a 
sunbeam. 

Betsy  was  a  widow  ;  she  sheltered  her  sorrows  in  the  cottage  by  the 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


393 


roadside  ;  in  the  winter  she  knitted  and  spun,  and  helped  the  neighbors 
on  festival  occasions ;  in  the  summer  she  bloomed  and  flourished  like  the 
bee  in  its  hive,  or  the  seed  in  an  apple,  selling  'Bier  &  Sider'  to  thirsty- 
villagers,  or  dusty  travellers. — So  runs  the  quaint  portraiture  of  the  An- 
cient Records.  

Jacopo  opened  his  eyes  ;  he  was  astounded  by  the  display  of  so  many 
charms — charms  at  once  compact  and  luxuriant.  ' 

Springing  from  his  seat  he  darted  toward  the  door,  and  took  the  bowl 
from  her  hand. 

"  And  this  is  Betsy  !"  he  said,  meditatively  shutting  one  eye,  as  he  suf- 
fered his  fingers  to  linger  upon  the  hand  which  held  the  cup.  "  My  name 
is  James,  Betsy,  the  Reverend  Jacob  James.  A  friend  of  mine,  who 
passed  this  way  last  year,  spoke  of  you,  and  of  your — cider.  You  have 
been  well*  Betsy  ?" 

Betsy  laughed.  Oh,  the  Poverty  of  language !  Had  you  seen  her 
white  teeth  gleam  out  from  her  red  lips,  while  her  eyes  danced,  and  the 
dimples  on  her  cheeks  and  chin  and  throat  laughed  in  chorus  !  In  fact, 
she  laughed  all  over.  Then,  when  she  spoke,  every  word  touched  with 
a  scarcely  perceptible  German  accent,  how  the  white  of  her  teeth  and  the 
red  of  her  lips  seemed  to  play  bo-peep  with  each  other  ! 

"  Ha,  ha  !  Excuse  me — you  must  n't  think  anythin'  of  me  laughin', 
but— but— " 

And  away  she  went  again.  We  cannot  aver  that  Jacopo's  somewhat 
singular  figure  excited  her  merriment,  for  a  black  coat  and  white  cravat, 
will  turn  the  eye  away  at  any  time  from  physical  or  moral  deformity. 
Jacopo  as  Jacopo  might  have  been  simply  ridiculous  ;  but,  Jacopo  as  a 
Reverend  was  decidedly  respectable. 

Betsy  laughed  for  the  same  reason  that  the  ripe  peach  looks  beautiful 
in  the  sun, — or  the  bird  sings,  when  perched  on  the  topmost  bough — she 
laughed  because  she  was  full  of  life. 

Betsy  was  a  widow  ;  Betsy  had  no  care ;  Betsy  had  teeth  like  pearls  ; 
therefore  Betsy  laughed. 

"  Don't  mindt  te  gal,  Dominie,"  exclaimed  Jake,  "  It's  her  way.  Al- 
ways grinnin'  like  a  chessy-cat." 

"  Mind  her  ?  Bless  my  soul,  I  love  to  see  young  persons  enjoy  them- 
selves. Laugh,  my  child,  laugh.  It  expands  the  muscles,  throws  out  the 
chest,  and  clears  the  cobwebs  out  of  the  brain.  Laugh,  my  child,  laugh  !" 

And  the  venerable  Jacopo,  in  a  fit  of  paternal  feeling,  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  round  arm  of  the  Widow  Betsy. 

"  '  Young  persons,'  ha,  ha,  ha  !  Gott  bless  us  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  I'm  an 
oldt  woman — ha  !  ha  !" 

And  as  if  to  prove  it,  she  folded  her  white  arms  over  her  capacious 
bust,  while  the  dimples  went  rioting  her  cheeks,  and  the  ring  of  her 
laugh  pealed  on  the  air,  mellow  and  musical,  as  the  note  of  a  bird. 


t 


394 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR 


"  Twenty-one,"  said  Jacopo,  "  Twenty-one.    Not  a  year  older.  Quite 

a  child— a  little  girl,  in  fact." 

And  the  good  man  patted  her  playfully  on  the  downy  cheek. 

•  Tont !"  said  the  widow  with  a  simper  and  a  blush,  that  would  have 
done  honor  to  a  lady  of  fashion—*'  Be  gwit  tat!" 

Jacopo  warmed  into  a  playful  humor — Reverend  men  will  be  playful 
sometimes — attempted  to  seize  her  hand.  You  should  have  seen  Betsy 
as  she  stood  in  the  cabin  door,  laughing  all  over,  as  a  stray  sunbeam  fell 
on  her  dimples,  and  danced  about  her  throat,  where  it  began  to  widen  into 
the  expansive  bust ! 

"  Mindt  yer  own  pizness !"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  offended  dignity 
some  what  modified  by  her  dimpled  visage. 

Encouraged  by  the  good  humor  of  the  buxom  dame,  Jacopo  grew  fami- 
liar—  nay,  paternal,  is  the  word.  He  took  her  hand,  he  rolled  it  gently 
within  his  own,  as  a  child  plays  with  a  piece  of  stolen  dough ;  his  small 
eyes  begin  to  sparkle  in  his  comely  visage. 

"  You  must  be  careful  of  your  health,  my  dear," — her  voice  sinking 
into  a  persuasive  whisper — "Avoid  the  night  air.  Eschew  wet  feet.  Your 
health  is  delicate — your  form  fragile — the  slightest  puff  of  air  might  blow 
you  into  a  gallopin'  consumption.    Ah,  me  !  What  a  tender  flower  !" 

jacopo  cast  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  fashioned  his  mouth  into  a  grimace 
of  frightful  solemnity. 

"  Delicate  ?  Me  !"  cried  Betsy — "  O  Lordt !"  and  then  in  the  serene 
amplitude  of  her  charms,  she  laughed  and  shook,  shook  and  laughed  again, 
until  she  looked  like  an  immense  flower,  blossoming  in  the  frame  of  that 
cabin  door,  with  its  leaves  tost  to  and  fro,  by  a  sudden  blast. 

And  all  the  while,  the  sunbeam  went  dancing  over  her  face,  now  tinting 
her  warm  lip,  now  lingering  about  her  white  round  throat,  now  nestling  in 
a  dimple  of  her  joyous  cheek. 

"  By  the  bye  my  dear  child,"  continued  Jacopo  still  kneading  the  plump 
hand  of  the  good  Betsy  :    "They  say  that  it  is  haunted." 

"  It  ?"  and  Betsy's  eyes  expanded  while  something  like  a  cloud  came 
over  her  laughing  face. 

"  The  house  next  door.  The  old  house.  Owned  by  a  gentleman  who 
sold  himself  to  the  devil.    Tenanted  by  spooks  eh,  Betsy  ?" 

Just  as  you  have  seen  a  sheet  of  clear  and  spotless  letter  paper,  sud* 
denly  made  hideous  by  a  blot  from  an  upturned  ink  bottle,  so  the  face  of 
Betsy,  round  and  joyous,  grew  black  with  a  cloud  of  indignation. 

"Spooks?"  she  cried — and  her  voice  grew  shrill — "Who  says  it? 
You,  Jake?  Or,  Chon  ?  Or,  was  it  you,  Pete?" 

The  three  dropped  their  mugs,  and  started  backward  with  one  impulse. 
Not  a  word  was  said.  Betsy  stood  in  the  doorway  clenching  her  small 
hand,  while  her  face  flashed,  and  her  eyes  shone  with  anger.  Jacopo  with 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


395 


his  mouth  agape  and  his  eyes  expanding  in  a  ludicrous  stare,  looked  as 
though  he  had  suddenly  stepped  upon  a  rattle-snake. 

"Who  says  so  V*  continued  the  indignant  dame — "  A  pack  of  idle,  goot- 
for-nothing  vagapones  to  go  apout  tellin'  lies  apout  a  decent  oldt  house  ! 
Aint  ye  ashamed  o'yerselfs  ?  Nefer  show  yer  ugly  mugs  inside  of  my 
toors  agin.    Ha'nted  in-t-e-e-d  !" 

Betsy  paused  for  breath,  and  shook  her  clenched  hand  in  the  faces  of 
the  affrighted  villagers,  who  looked  into  each  others  faces,  and  kept  steal- 
thily retreating  toward  the  gate. 

"  But  Betsy,  dey  do  say,  dat  te  tefil — "  begun  Jake. 

"  Betsy  spooks  has  been  seen  thar'  "  cried  Chon. 

"  An'  noises  heer'd — dev'lish  noises — "  suggested  Pete. 

Betsy  seized  her  broom.    The  affair  grew  solemn. 

The  broom,  that  peculiar  weapon  of  all  lonely  and  afflicted  women,  from 
the  trembling  virgin  who  grasps  it  to  immolate  a  spider  to  the  injured  wife 
who  rears  it  to  admonish  a  drunken  husband — the  Broom  !  It  was  the 
sight  of  this  formidable  missile  that  made  the  pot-companions  tremble. 
Their  retreat  became  a  route.  With  one  brilliant  attack,  Betsy  worried 
them  over  the  grass  plot  and  charged  them  through  the  gate. 

"  Now  ye  ornery  fystes  ever  say  tat  house  is  hanted  agin  if  ye  dare  !" 

They  went  their  ways,  Jake  cursing,  Pete  blowing  and  Chon  endanger- 
ing his  blood  vessels  by  a  smothered  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Te  ornery  fystes  /"  panted  Betsy  as  she  flung  the  broom  away,  and 
sank  exhausted  into  a  chair,  beside  the  wondering  Jacopo. 

**  Ornery  fystes  !"  This  phrase  looks  mysterious.  The  first  word  is  a 
modification  of  "Ordinary"  and  is  much  used  in  the  Land  of  Penn,  to 
express  the  last  extreme  of  worthlessness.  A  spavined  horse  ;  a  Bank 
Director  '  found  out'  in  his  little  speculations  ;  a  lady  of  fashion,  whose 
husband  and  lover  come  to  fisty-cuffs,  about  her  damaged  reputation  ;  a 
lawyer  who  pockets  fees  from  both  sides,  and  drives  a  smart  trade  between 
the  Thief  and  the  Bailiff ;  a  sheriff  elected  to  office  by  a  certain  party 
and  sharing  all  the  plunder  with  the  hungry  ones  of  the  opposite  party 
 these  all,  in  Pennsylvania  language  are  "  Ornery." 

As  to  the  cabalistic  word,  "  Fyste"  we  know  not  whether  it  is  German, 
Greek  or  Indian.  Possibly  it  is  Choctaw.  It  was  once  much  in  vogue 
in  the  German  districts  of  Pennsylvania.  It  is  said  to  have  been  applied 
in  the  first  place,  to  those  benevolent  pilgrims,  who  journeying  from  the 
land  of  Plymouth  Rock,  enlightened  the  benighted  Germans  by  a  severe 
course  of  wooden  nutmegs,  horn  flints  and  patent  medicines. 

"Tat  Yankee fyste!"  was  the  exclamation  of  a  Berks  County  farmer 
who  had  been  persuaded  to  purchase  a  Patent-Right  of  an  Improved 
Wheel-barrow  which  was  to  go  of  itself ;  by  gravitation  as  the  Yankee 
candidly  observed. 

But  those  days  are  passed.    New  England  from  the  fountain  of  her 


396 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


overflowing  benevolence,  no  longer  sends  to  ignorant  Pennsylvania,  her 
former  goodly  offering  of  Pedlars  and  Horse- Jockies.  She  sends  us 
Preachers,  Editors  and  Lawyers.  They  do  not  peddle — not  they !  Nor 
jockey  ?  No,  Sir !  Why  our  souls  could  not  be  saved,  nor  our  minds 
enlightened,  nor  the  course  of  Justice  go  forward,  were  it  not  for  these 
Missionaries,  sent  to  our  benighted  clime,  by  Old  New  England.  In  fact, 
every  path  that  leads  to  eminence  or  pennies,  is  macadamized  by  flints 
from  Plymouth  Rock.  They  preach  our  sermons,  they  do  our  law,  they 
publish  our  papers,  they  write  our  histories.  Pennsylvania  could  not  get 
on  without  them.  And  once  a  year  they  get  together  in  some  cozy  hotel 
— as  many  of  them  as  Society  can  spare — and  amid  a  wilderness  of 
chowder  and  punkin-pie,  they  drench  themselves  with  Cider  from  Jersey 
and  Blarney  from  Plymouth  Rock.  Persons  there  are,  who  pretend  that 
New  England  keeps  her  Religion,  her  Intellect,  her  Liberality  at  Home, 
and  only  sends  abroad  her  Fanaticism,  her  Stupidity  and  Meanness.  These 
persons  grossly  err  ;  we  all  know  that  Pennsylvania  like  a  worn  out  clock 
would  stop  forever,  were  she  not  wound  up  by  a  key,  fashioned  from  the 
iron  bolt  of  that  New  England  gibbet  on  which  they  hung  Quakers  in 
good  old  times.  Was  it  not  a  Boston  Historian  who  told  us  j  the  other 
day,  that  William  Penn  was  only  great,  because  he  came  of  true  blue 
Yankee  stock  ;  a  kind  of  Quaker  mastodeon  from  the  fossil  region  of  Ply- 
mouth Rock? 

The  word  "Fystef"  was  once  applied  to  the  Pedlar  and  Jockey;  now — 
In  this  modern  day,  the  word  has  undergone  strange  modifications. 
It  has  become  a  word  of  honor.  It  is  no  longer  applied  to  the  cheat,  the 
blackguard  and  the  vagabond.  It  is  now  used  to  designate  the  learned 
Judge  who  preaches  Temperance  from  the  Bench  and  sells  licenses  at  the 
Back-Door.  Or,  the  honorable  Sheriff  who  distributes  "  Tracts"  before 
he  is  elected,  and  after  his  election  pounces  upon  the  possessions  of  the 
unfortunate  debtor,  feeding  and  gorging  himself,  even  to  the  last  shred,  un- 
til you  are  reminded  of  a  buzzard  perched  upon  its  festering  prey.  Or, 
the  Politician  who  hungry  for  office,  and  sworn  to  have  it  at  all  hazards, 
prepares  himself  for  his  grave  duties  by  a  series  of  arduous  exercises, 
such  as  Obscenity  from  the  stump,  Libel  in  the  newspaper  and  Perjury 
everywhere. 

These  gentlemen  are  all  known  as  "  Fystes  ;"  some  of  them,  truth  to 
tell,  well  deserve  the  full  force  of  the  vernacular, — "  Ornery  Fystes" 

"  My  dear  child,"  whined  Jacopo,  as  the  dame  sat  panting  and  blow- 
ing in  the  chair,  whose  capacious  arms  might  scarce  contain  her  bulky 
loveliness — "  Be  calm  !" 

He  handed  her  a  mug  of  cider,  and  fanned  her  heated  visage  with  his 
three-cornered  hat. 

"  Be  calm  !"  echoed  the  panting  dame — "  It's  very  easy  to  talk !  Butto 


0 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  397 

sit  still  and  hear  sich  nonsense,  apout  a  ha'nted  house,  spooKS,  the  tefil 
and  all  tat !" 

"  Then  the  house  is  not  haunted/'  suggested  Jacopo  very  mildly. 
"  Good  Lordt !  N-o-o  !"  and  the  Widow  burst  into  a  laugh. 
"  No  spooks  there  ?  Eh  ?" 

"Spooks?  Not  even  the  spook  of  a  cat," — Betsy  laughed  until  she 
shook  again. 

"  Then  tell  me,  my  child,  why  it  is  shut  up  so  closely,  like  a  grave 
vault,  or  a  bottle  of  old  wine,  with  its  red  cork  covered  with  cobwebs  ?" 

The  Reverend  man,  in  the  warm  impulse  of  paternal  feeling,  seized  her 
hand,  and  looked  quite  tenderly  into  her  eyes. 

"  Because  te  folks  who  owns  it  is  away  in  Englandt  or  Chiney,"  re- 
plied Betsy,  with  sudden  gravity — "  Do  you  think  tat  I'd  live  next  toor 
to  a  ha'nted  house  ?  I  vos  brought  up  rispectable,  I  vos.  And  I've 
lived  rispectable  tis  eighteen  year,  since  I  lost  my  huspand,  poor  Adam, 
Gott  bless  him.  A  purty  shtory  inteed  !  Tat  in  my  oldt  tays  I  should 
live  next  toor  to  a  house  wit  spooks  and  tevils  in  it!" 

"  It  is  ridiculous,  Betsy,  nay  it  is  infamous  !"  cried  Jacopo,  with  becom- 
ing gravity.    "For  one  I  don't  believe  it.    Get  me  a  pipe,  my  dear." 

Betsy  rose  in  order  to  comply  with  this  request,  when  a  harsh  deep 
voice  broke  suddenly  upon  the  evening  stillness. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIFTH. 

"THE  VAGABOND." 

"And  so  they  say  the  old  house  is  haunted — do  they?" 

Betsy  uttered  a  scream  and  Jacopo  bounded  from  his  chair. 

The  speaker  stood  very  near  them — within  arm's  length  indeed — he 
had  passed  through  the  gate  unperceived,  and  now  pausing  under  the 
branches  of  the  oak,  rested  his  hands  upon  his  staff,  and  gazed  into  their 
wondering  faces,  while  the  sunlight  tinted  his  grey  hairs. 

lie  was  an  old  man,  very  tall  and  robust,  with  sunburnt  features  and 
long  hair  and  beard — both  as  white  as  the  driven  snow.  He  stood  rest- 
ing his  hands  upon  a  knotted  staff,  while  the  sunlight  revealed  his  gaunt 
form,  enveloped  in  miserable  attire.  In  fact,  he  was  arrayed  in  rags. 
The  garment  that  clothed  his  chest,  and  gathered  to  his  waist  by  a  leathern 
girdle,  descended  to  his  knees,  might  have  once  been  blue  or  black  01 


398  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

brown,  but  now  its  texture  and  color  were  lost  in  a  multitude  of  patches. 
His  shoes,  rent  and  torn,  were  bound  to  his  feet  by  an  intricate  lacing  of 
rags  and  cords  ;  his  tattered  buckskin  leggings,  clothing  limbs  by  no  means 
deficient  in  muscle,  were  also  fastened  by  strips  of  twine  and  leather. 

And  thus,  staff  in  hand,  the  gaunt  old  man,  clad  in  rags  that  a  beggar 
might  have  been  ashamed  to  wear,  stood  between  the  gazers  and  the 
light  of  the  western  sky,  his  silvery  hair  reddened  at  the  edges  by  the 
rays  of  the  declining  sun. 

His  sunburnt  face  and  piercing  eyes,  shadowed  by  an  old  felt  hat,  and 
framed  in  that  mass  of  snowy  beard  and  hair,  were  animated  by  some- 
thing like  a  smile,  as  he  surveyed  the  wondering  pair.  Here  Jacopo, 
with  his  mouth  agape,  his  small  eyes  expanding  in  his  blooming  face  ; 
there  the  buxom  widow,  her  round  arms  crossed  over  her  luxurious  bust, 
while  her  mouth  assuming  the  shape  of  the  letter  0  !  displayed  her 
pearly  teeth  in  even  rows. 

"A  very  pleasant  day,  my  friends,"  said  the  old  man,  his  harsh  deep 
voice  tempered  to  a  mild  and  pleasant  tone,  while  he  slowly  lifted  the 
hat  from  his  white  hairs — "And  so  they  say — "  his  voice  was  harsh  and 
deep  again — "  that  the  old  house  is  haunted — do  they?" 

"  Vonders  vere  he  comes  from,"  murmured  Betsy. 

"Looks  like  a  Ragged  Rainbow,"  soliloquized  Jacopo. 

"You  do  not  answer  me,"  continued  the  old  man,  with  a  smile  that 
showed  that  despite  his  years,  his  teeth  were  firm  and  white-  -"  Am  I  an 
unwelcome  guest?" 

"  Vots  yer  name  ?" — Betsy  assumed  a  position  of  great  dignity,  while 
Jacopo  slunk  quietly  behind  her  capacious  shoulders — "  Never  seed  you 
in  tese  parts  pefore  ?" 

"  Pay-As-I-Go,"  responded  the  old  man,  and  at  the  word,  from  some 
obscure  nook  of  his  rags,  he  drew  forth  a  crown  of  shining  silver.  "  That's 
my  name.  And  now  I'll  take  some  bread  and  cheese,  or  a  bit  of  cold 
chicken  and  a  mug  of  cider,  with  a  pipe  of  tobacco.  Stir  yourself,  my 
good  woman."  — 

Betsy  was  puzzled.  Shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  she  gazed 
anxiously  into  the  old  man's  visage,  while  the  face  of  Jacopo  was  seen 
peering  over  her  white  shoulder.  Something  there  was  in  the  manner 
and  appearance  of  the  stranger  that  impressed  the  good  dame  with  a  sen- 
sation of  wonder  mingled  with  fear. 

"  His  peard  is  so  white  and  yit  his  voice  is  so  shtrong  !  His  dress  so 
raggedt,  and  yit  he  handles  money  like  a  Lordt !  Kin  he  want  to  steal — 
or  murder  ?" 

These  thoughts  passed  rapidly  through  Betsy's  mind,  while  Jacopo, 
pressing  his  lips  against  her  smooth  shoulder — unconsciously  you  may 
be  sure — whispered  softly  in  her  ear — 

"  Speak  to  him  kind,  Betsy.    He  may  be  an  angel  in  disguise." 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  399 

Betsy  had  heard  of  angels  in  a  state  of  Paradisical  nudity ;  she  had 
seen  in  her  old  Dutch  Bible  various  pictures  of  corpulent  angels,  but  the 
idea  of  a  Ragged  Angel  was  too  much  for  her  gravity. 

She  laughed  until  the  air  rung  again.  But  her  merriment  as  suddenly 
died  away.  The  old  man  grew  red  in  the  face,  he  gasped  for  breath,  and 
sank  helplessly  in  a  chair,  his  mouth  wide  open  and  his  eyes  closed,  as 
if  in  a  deathly  swoon. 

To  seize  a  mug  of  cider,  to  moisten  his  lips  and  face  with  the  fragrant 
October,  to  chafe  his  hands  with  her  soft  palms,  and  slap  him  violently  on 
the  back  as  you  would  slap  a  choking  infant ;  all  this  was  the  work  of 
a  moment. 

Betsy  was  in  her  true  element.  Hovering  round  the  insensible  old  man, 
she  looked  like  one  of  those  substantial  Angels,  pictured  in  the  Dutch 
Bible  aforesaid,  while  Jacopo,  stirred  into  activity  by  her  example,  and 
fanning  the  stranger  with  his  coat-tails,  brought  to  mind,  a  Dutch  Satan 
making  mischief  near  a  Dutch  Eve. 

"  Lordt  if  he  should  die  on  my  place,  we'd  have  the  Coroner  sittin'  on 
him — Git  som  water — dash  it  in  his  face — shake  him,  shake  him — " 

The  old  man  moved,  at  first  very  gently  and  then  in  the  agonies  of  a 
spasm.  He  clutched  his  staff  and  brandished  it  wildly  to  and  fro,  while 
Betsy  tried  very  hard  to  hold  him  in  the  chair.  The  staff  came  in  con- 
tact with  Jacopo's  shoulder;  as  a  matter  of  course  Jacopo  plunged  rather 
suddenly  to  the  ground.  When  he  raised  himself  again,  and  rubbed  his 
eves,  he  saw  a  sight  which  made  him  doubt  his  eyes. 

The  luxuriant  form  of  Betsy  rested  on  the  old  man's  knee  ;  the  old 
man's  arm  was  about  her  neck  ;  the  old  man's  white  beard  against  her 
smooth  cheek — nay  the  old  man — in  his  spasm — was  kissing  her  violently, 
— kissing  her  warm  lips,  her  cheeks,  her  chin — kissing  every  dimple  in 
her  joyous  face.  And  in  his  spasm,  he  pressed  her  round  neck  in  his 
fingers,  and  gathered  her  massive  loveliness,  very  closely  to  his  breast. 

"  Let  me  go  !  Be  guit  !  Te  tefil!"  screamed  Betsy,  completely  bewild- 
ered by  this  spasmodic  attack — "  You  old  fyste — you — " 

The  old  man  stopped  her  mouth  with  a  kiss,  and  Betsy  with  one  des- 
perate bound  escaped  from  his  arms,  and  stood  panting  and  glowing,  her 
kerchief  disarranged  and  her  brown  hair  floating  loosely  about  her  blush- 
ing face. 

Jacopo  could  not  believe  his  eyes  ! 

The  old  man,  recovered  from  his  swoon,  sate  calmly  in  his  chair,  rest- 
ing his  hands  upon  his  staff,  while  his  aged  face,  turned  from  side  to  side 
— from  Betsy  who  blushed  and  panted  here,  to  Jacopo,  who  squat  upon 
the  ground,  rubbed  his  eyes  without  ceasing — with  an  expression  of  vague 
bewilderment. 

"Excuse  me,  my  good  friends;"  he  muttered  wildly — "Where  am  I?" 


400  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

he  continued  like  a  man  awaking  from  some  troubled  d  earn — "0,  I  re- 
member! One  of  my  spasms." 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  aged  face, — very  slowly  and  with  a 
thoughtful  motion — like  a  man  who  endeavors  to  recall  his  wandering 
memory. 

"  Spasms  !"  ejaculated  Jacopo  rubbing  his  bruises. 

"Spasms!"  echoed  Betsy,  bursting  with  indignation,  as  she  arranged 
her  hair  and  smoothed  her  kerchief. 

"  Spasms,  my  children,"  said  the  aged  man,  "  Been  subject  to  'em 
since  I  was  a  boy."  It  was  beautiful  to  a  painter's  eye,  to  see  that  figure 
of  venerable  old  age,  enthroned  in  the  arm  chair,  under  the  oaken  tree, 
with  Jacopo  prostrate  at  its  feet,  and  Betsy  hovering  near. 

"  Get  me  something  to  eat,  my  good  girl,  or  the  spasm  will  come  on 
again,"  said  the  ragged  venerable, while  a  curious  light  shone  in  his  eyes. 

Betsy  turned  away,  enraged  and  murmuring,  her  great  bust  heaving  like 
an  immense  billow,  as  she  entered  the  cabin  door,  while  Jacopo  rising 
from  the  ground  with  a  careful  motion,  seated  himself  as  far  from  the 
stranger  as  possible,  observing  him  at  the  same  time,  as  you  would  eye  a 
suspicious  beast. 

"  Devil  take  his  spasms,"  he  muttered  rubbing  his  wounds. 

Betsy  returned,  glorious  .in  her  full-blown  beauty,  but  formidable  with 
festival  array;  a  jug  of  cider,  a  platter  of  cold  ham,  a  loaf  of  home-made 
bread  and  a  pipe  of  fragrant  tobacco. 

"  There,"  she  said  emphatically,  "  Andt  no  more  of  yer  spasms." 

The  old  man  cooly  wheeled  his  chair,  and  set  about  his  work.  It  was 
by  no  means  eating;  it  was  actual  work,  that  he  displayed  before  the  eyes 
of  the  good  Widow.  With  one  impetuous  movement  he  assaulted  the 
ham,  carried  the  home-made  bread  by  storm,  and  brought  the  cider  to 
close  quarters.  In  silence,  as  though  conscious  of  having  a  certain  amount 
of  labor  before  him,  and  a  fixed  time  for  its  accomplishment,  the  good  old 
man  pursued  his  task.  Jacopo  sat  aloof,  his  round  visage  rendered  me- 
lancholy by  a  vacant  stare ;  the  widow  sank  into  a  seat,  her  voluptuous 
mouth  once  more  assuming  an  alphabetical  shape,  and  writing  a  sort  of 
dumb  O  !  upon  her  blooming  face. 

» I  thought  I  had  an  appetite,"  murmured  the  Philosopher.  "  I  say, 
my  good  friend,  did  you  ever  in  the  course  of  your  travels  happen  to  be 
shipwrecked, — and  if  so— did  you  ever  happen  to  eat  anybody, — for  in- 
stance, a  fat  man,  or  a  healthy  child,  or  even  a  hearty  little  nigger?" 

To  this  polite  inquiry  the  old  man  did  not  respond,  until  he  had  carried 
by  storm,  the  last  bit  of  ham,  and  the  last  crust  of  home-made  bread. 

"  I  feel  my  spasm,  comin'  on  again,"  he  said — his  eyes  twinkling — his 
staff  once  more  in  his  right  hand. 

Jacopo  moved  his  chair ;  the  widow  seized  her  broom. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


401 


"I  sometimes  gits  tern  tings  meself,  and  when  I  toes,  I  breaks  people's 
heads  mit  tis  broom." 

"  And  that  it  was,  that  drove  your  poor  Adam  to  see,  some  sixteen  years 
or  so  ago,"  said  the  old  man,  lighting  his  pipe,  at  the  tinder  box,  which 
stood  on  the  table. 

Reddening  and  panting  the  good  dame  started  to  her  feet,  satisfied  that 
the  stranger  was  in  fact,  none  other  than  the  . 

"  My  husband  !" 

"  Your  husband  (puff.)  Poor  Adam  !  (puff)  He  used  te  weep  at  the 
memory  of  that  broom.  *  Caleb,'  says  he  to  me  one  day,  as  we  sat  on 
ship  board  together,  if  you  should  ever  chance  to  get  to  Germantown,  seek 
out  my  wife,  and  tell  her  that  the  old  broom  was  the  cause  of  my  broken 
heart,    (puff)  Poor  Adam  !" 

The  widow  was  dumb  ;  the  ends  of  her  fingers  trembled  with  a  sort 
of  feline  motion. 

"  What  would  you  say  if  Adam  was  to  come  back  ?"  continued  the 
aged  man,  "Come  back,  sometime  within  a  month" — he  paused  and  puffed 
— "  within  a  week — "  pause  and  puff  again — "  within  a  day — an  hour— 
(pause  and  puff)  within  a  minute  !" 

"  My  Gott !"  gasped  the  widow,  sinking  back  into  a  chair,  "but  you 
aint  him  V 

The  old  man  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  thus  shading  his  face  from 
the  light,  while  the  Widow  bending  forward  in  her  chair,  awaited  his  an- 
swer in  an  agony  of  suspense. 

"  This  reminds  me  of  Homer,"  muttered  Jacopo,  "  a  Ragged  Ulysses 
and  a  Dutch  Penelope." 

"  Has'nt  she  a  dog  to  know  him,  and  then  die  ?  Even  a  cat  would  do." 

"  No,  Betsy  ;  I  am  not  him"  said  "Pay-As-l-Go"  to  give  the  stranger 
his  own  name,  "Let  me  .cut  a  long  story  short.  Scarcely  a  year  ago, 
Adam  died  in  my  arms,  somewhere  in  the  West  Indies.  Yellow  fever, 
you  understand  ?    He  told  me  to  give  you,  this — " 

He  flung  a  small  package,  wrapped  in  brown  paper  and  tied  with  twine, 
into  the  widow's  lap.  The  twine  broke  and  the  brown  paper  parted; 
sixteen  bright  pieces  of  gold,  started  from  the  aperture,  and  glistened  vi- 
vidly before  the  eyes  of  the  thunder-stricken  woman. 

"  Only  dead  a  year  !"  she  gasped,  "  Why  ten  if  I'd  married  Chon  Butz 
a  year  an'  two  months  ago,  tey  would  have  put  me  in  jail  for — for — " 

"Mahogany,"  suggested  Jacopo 

"  For  mahogany,"  continued  the  widow,  using  this  new  synonym  for 
bigamy  without  a  thought,  that  it  was  in  the  least  degree  incorrect — "Only 
a  year  !  Poor  Adam  !' 

She  applied  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  the  bright  pieces  clinked  upon 
the  ground. 

The  old  man  did  not  permit  her  much  leisure  for  the  indulgence  of  .her 

26 

•  N 


402  PAUL  ARDfeNHEIM;  OR, 

grief,  for  while  the  tears  streamed  over  the  blooming  cheeks,  he  seized 
his  staff",  and  rose  from  his  chair. 

"I  have  another  commission  to  fulfil  in  these  parts,"  he  said  "Betsy- 
do  you  know  anything  about  an  old  couple,  who  used  to  live  in  a  cottage, 
somewhere  about  the  graveyard?  Morton,  I  think  they  were  called, — or 
what  was  their  name  ?" 

There  Was  a  slight  tremor  in  the  old  man's  voice ;  his  eyes,  bright  at 
all  times  shone  with  unusual  light. 

"  Morgan,"  said  Betsy  looking  at  him  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes, 
"  Very  old  folks  they  vos — " 

"Was  ?"  echoed  the  old  man  with  a  start. 

"Been  deadt  a  year,"  continued  Betsy — "Never  was  very  well,  since 
their  son,  went  away  some  two  years  ago.  Old  Abel  and  Hannah  sick- 
ened arid  diedt  within  two  days  of  each  other." 

The  old  man  was  observed  to  tremble,  and  grasp  his  staff,  while  his 
features  were  violently  agitated. 

"Dead!"  he  muttered,  "What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  their  son?" 

"  Gilbert  Morgan,"  said  Betsy,  "  But  tell  me  more  of  Adam — " 

"  Dead  !"  again  repeated  the  old  man, "And  I  had  a  message  from  their 
son.  Tell  me, — did  they  want  for  bread  ?  Were  their  last  days  wretched 
with  poverty — with  hunger  and  cold  ?  Speak,  Betsy,  for — for — yen 
see  poor  Gilbert  told  me  to  see  them, — to  give  them  gold — and  beg  their 
blessing  on  his  guilty  soul.  Speak,  I  say  !  Did  the  old  folks  die  the 
miserable  death  of  poverty  and  age  V 

"  I  was  with  'em  mesself,"  said  Betsy,  between  her  sobs,  "Tey  wanted 
for  nothing  while  I  was  tere,  andt  I  saw  'em  laidt  in  te  grave  ;  but,  Gil- 
bert, what  ever  became  of  him  ?" 

"  God  bless  you  for  that,"  the  voice  of  the  old  man  was  tremulous  but 
earnest  as  he  dashed  a  tear  from  his  eye — "  You  were  near  them  in  their 
dying  hour.  God  bless  you  !  As  for  Gilbert,  what  kind  of  character  did 
he  bear  in  these  parts  ?    A  wild  fellow, — drunken, — eh  ?" 

"  Many  a  time  have  I  seen  him  stand  where  you  stapd,  when  he  was 
quite  a  poy.  A  goot  poy,  too,  but — Gilbert  went  away  suddenly  about 
two  years  ago — next  christmas  will  be  three  years — andt — there  was 
a  young  girl  foundt  murteredt  back  on  the  Wissahikon — Madeline 
Dorfner — " 

kk  Eh,  some  village  gossip,  I  suppose  ?"  said  the  old  man  with  a  hearty 
laugh,  but  a  laugh  that  from  his  previous  tone,  sounded  hollow  and  unna- 
tural.   "This  Madeline  is  dead,  then, — murdered  by  Gilbert  Morgan  ?" 

There  was  a  strange  hesitation  in  the  widow's  voice,  and  manner  as 

she  answered  : 

"  She  has  never  been  seen  since.  Gilbert  murteredt  her — so  they  say. 
But,  as  Gott  sees  me,  I  never  believed  it,  and  tont  believe  it  now — tat's 
all." 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  403 

"Well,  well,  a  queer  story!  Little  did  I  think  when  I  pressed  Gil- 
bert's hand  away  in  the  Indies,  that  he'd  been  murderin'  purty  girls 
on  the  Wissa — Wissa — what  d'ye  call  it  ?  Good  night,  Betsy, — see  you 
again  sometime — take  care  that  poor  Adam  does  n't  come  back,  and  take 
care  of  all  strangers  who  are  troubled  with — spasms  !" 

Grasping  his  staff,  the  old  man  turned  suddenly  away,  and  with  a  hearty 
burst  of  laughter  went  toward  the  garden  gate,  his  silvery  hair  floating  on 
his  shoulders,  and  his  tall  form,  clad  in  rags,  shone  distinctly  in  the  eve- 
ning sunlight.  He  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  gate,  gazing  up  the  street 
and  down,  laughing  heartily  to  himself  all  the  while,  and  then  suddenly 
dissappeared. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIXTH. 

HOW  JACOPO  SAW  THE  HORSEMAN  IN  GRAY  ;  AND  THEN  REASONED  ACUTELY 

UPON  A  LIMB,  A  ROOF,  AND  A  WINDOW.  4 

"  Jist  look,"  cried  Betsy  to  Jacopo — "  Run  and  see  if  he  has  n't  sunk 
in  the  groundt — " 

Jacopo,  however,  being  a  Philosopher,  calmly  knelt  at  the  widow's 
feet,  and  examined  the  golden  c^jp,  piece  by  piece. 

"  Good,  all  good.  Doubloons,  every  one  of  them.  Give  yourself  no 
anxiety,  Betsy.  It  is  not  the  Devil ;  it's  a  livin'  human  being.  Had  it 
been  the  Devil,  he  would  have  given  you  counterfeit  money  or  bank 
notes." 

Consoled  by  this  philosophic  train  of  reasoning,  the  widow  gathered 
the  coin  in  her  apron,  and  as  the  separate  pieces  rolled  together  with  a 
musical  clink,  she  muttered,  as  if  by  way  of  chorus — "  Poor  Adam  !  Andt 
I  should  have  been  guilty  of  njahogany !" 

Jacopo  sat  himself  very  near  her,  and  in  his  usual  felicitous  manner 
attempted  to  lead  the  tearful  Betsy  into  conversation.  He  laid  his  hand 
gently  on  her  round  arm,  and  endeavored  to  make  her  speak  of  the 
Haunted  House.  Betsy  frowned,  and  pursed  her  lips  at  the  very  word. 
Next  Jacopo  spoke  of  Madeline.  Betsy  jumped  from  her  seat,  uttering 
a  solemn  ejaculation,  which  sounded  very  much  like  the  monosylable 
"  Pooh  !"  Then  Jacopo,  as  if  determined  to  be  agreeable  or  die  in  the 
attempt,  whimpered  dolefully  a  word  or  two  in  regard  to  the  departed 


404 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


Adam,  who  had  left  his  luxuriant  Eve,  to  pine.in  grass  widowhood,  in  the 
cabin  that  nestled  under  the  limbs  of  the  oaken  tree. 

Betsy  said  "  Tush  !"  and  "  Pooh  !"  in  a  breath,  and  then  sailed  grandly 
into  the  cabin,  the  gold  pieces  clinking  with  rich  music,  as  she  entered 
the  door. 

Lighting  a  pipe,  Jacopo  leaned  his  chair  against  the  tree,  and  while  the 
smoke  curled  round  his  face, — like  incense  hovering  over  the  visage  of 
some  Hindoo  idol — he  allowed  his  soul  to  meander  at  pleasure,  amid  the 
mazes  of  a  profound  philosophical  meditation. 

"  If  I  ever  get  over  the  events  of  this  day,  I  will  forswear  the  world, 
abandon  the  delights  of  polite  society,  and  bury  my  genius  and  my  sorrow 
within  the  drear  walls  of  a  Monastery.  Nay — I  will  found  a  new  order 
of  monks — the  holy  Fraternity  of  "  Puzzled  People."  That  shall  be  their 
title  ;  we  '11  say  prayers  in  a  Puzzling  garden,  and  the  only  texts  for  our 
sermons  shall  be  the  Puzzles  of  this  day.  First,  '  Who  was  the  elderly 
man,  who  frightened  Father  Jacopo  out  of  his  wits,  on  the  Wissahikon, 
and  converted  him  into  an  itinerant  Post-office  V  Puzzler  number  one. 
Next  and  secondly,  '  Who  was  the  old  man  who  brought  the  buxom 
Betsy  some  news  of  her  absent  Adam  V  Third  and  lastly,  '  The  Haunted 
House,  and  what  the  deuce  was  in  it?'  There  are  three  Puzzles,  that 
will  occupy  my  Fraternity  of  Puzzled  People  for  at  least  three  hundred 
years." 

Thus  rah  the  current  of  the  Philosopher's  thoughts,  while  gloomily 
before  rose  the  Haunted  House,  scowling  above  the  humble  cabin  of  the 
forlorn  widow.  Jacopo's  eye  traversed  the  monotonous  extent  of  that 
gable  wall,  and  Jacopo's  heart  grew  cold,  as  he  thought  of  the  adventure 
which  was  before  him. 

"  I  am  to  enter  that  dismal  den. — How  ?  T)eliver  this  letter  ?  To  whom  ?" 

The  letter  was  in  his  hand  ;  he  examined  once  more  its  blank  surface, 
and  held  its  portentous  seal  close  to  the  tip  of  his  nose. 

"  I  would  like  to  read  it,  but  it's  dangerous  to  meddle  with  the  corres- 
pondence of  his  Satanic  majesty.  Ah  !"  he  exclaimed,  raising  his  eyes, 
"  That  is  a  very  important  fact.  There  is  but  one  window  in  the  gable 
of  the  Haunted  House:  or  rather  a  round  hole,  without  a  sash.  That 
window  may  be  reached  from  the  top  of  the  widow's  cabin.  And  the 
top  of  the  cabin,  in  its  turn,  may  be  attained  by  climbing  this  tree,  and 
swinging  from  that  crooked  limb." 

The  solitary  window,  the  top  of  the  cabin,  and  the  crooked  limb,  gave 
our  Philosopher  an  unusual  degree  of  satisfaction.  Leaning  against  the 
tree,  with  his  limbs  on  the  table,  and  the  pipe  curling  its  mild  incense 
around  his  nostrils,  he  did  not  move  nor  speak  until  the  shades  of  evening 
began  to  darken  round. 

Then  rising,  he  beheld  the  substantial  form  of  Betsy,  enthroned  in  the 
cabin  door,  her  eyes  twinkling  brightly  through  the  gloom. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  405 

"  Betsy,  my  child,  I  will  take  a  walk,  and  be  back  to  supper  in  a  few 
moments.  I  have  an  appointment  to  meet  a  Reverend  friend,  up  the 
street.  We  have  a  theological  point  to  settle,  my  dear,  whether  Roman 
papists  have  souls,  and  if  they  have,  what  is  to  be  done  with  them.  After 
supper,  I  will  pursue  my  way.  Have  supper  ready  in  five  minutes, 
my  love." 

"Yes,  Dominie,"  answered  Betsy,  somewhat  won  by  the  courteous 
manner  and  profound  diction  of  the  Reverend  man. 

Jacopo  sauntered  forth,  and  presently  arrived  at  the  lower  extremity  of 
Chew's  Wall.  The  last  gleam  of  day  was  playing  over  the  verdure  of 
that  beautiful  lawn,  and  the  evening  breeze  stirred  with  low  music  among 
the  trees. 

But  there — near  the  lower  extremity  of  the  wall — halting  his  horse  by 
the  roadside,  was  the  unknown,  whose  tall  form  was  wrapped  from  obser- 
vation by  a  long  gray  overcoat.  His  hat  was  drawn  over  his  eyes ;  he 
sat  very  calmly  in  the  saddle,  the  rein  thrown  loosely  on  his  horse's  neck. 

41  Good  evening,  friend,"  said  Jacopo,  as  he  drew  near,  and  attempted 
by  a  searching  glance  to  gain  some  knowledge  of  the  horseman's  face : 
"  You  seem  to  enjoy  the  evening  air  ?" 

"  You  have  a  letter  ?"  said  the  horseman,  in  a  quick,  abrupt  tone. 

Jacopo  started  back  as  though  the  horse  had  kicked  him  in  the  breast. 

"  That  voice  !"  a  thought  flashed  over  him — "Can  it  be  " 

"  You  have  a  letter — for  me  ?"  the  Horseman  said  again  ;  and  Jacopo 
heard  a  scabbard  clank  against  his  boot,  as  the  steed,  covered  with  dust 
and  foam,  pawed  the  ground  with  his  hoof — "  The  letter,  I  say  !" 

Jacopo  drew  it  from  his  pocket  and  placed  it  in  the  stranger's  hand,  still 
anxiously  endeavoring  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  face. 

"Stand  off, — or  my  horse  will  kick  you,"  and  the  Horseman,  tearing 
open  the  letter,  read  it  by  the  fading  light — " 4  The  son  of  Gaspard — 
Michael  lives T  he  murmured,  and  then  abruptly  turned  his  horse's  head 
toward  the  lane  by  which  Jacopo  had  journeyed  from  Wissahikon. 

"  Here,  fellow,  is  something  for  your  trouble,"  he  flung  a  gold  piece  in 
the  dust,  and  sunk  the  spurs  into  the  flanks  of  his  steed.  Even  as  Jacopo 
stood  confounded  and  motionless,  the  horse  dashed  into  the  Wissahikon 
lane ;  not  an  instant  passed  ere  horse  and  rider  were  lost  to  sight. 

It  was  many  moments  before  our  Philosopher  recovered  his  composure. 

"  It's  him"  he  said,  picking  the  gold  piece  from  the  dust — 44  I'd  know 
that  nose  and  those  eyes  among  ten  thousand  !" 

Absorbed  in  a  train  of  novel  and  perplexing  thoughts,  Jacopo  slowly 
passed  the  Haunted  House — passed  the  wall,  overhung  by  the  foliage  of 
the  neglected  garden,  the  hall  door,  scowling  so  dark  and  desolate  upon 
the  village  street — and  re-entered  the  widow's  home. 

The  supper  was  spread  upon  the  table  under  the  oak ;  cheese  and  home- 
made bread,  and  toothsome  ham,  and  a  mug  of  spicy  October.  Betsy 


406  .  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

was  there,  in  all  her  charms ;  with  a  loaf  in  one  hand,  a  knife  in  the 
other,  she  stood  ready  to  do  the  honors  of  the  table. 

"  Come,  Dominie,  here's  your  supper,  Gott  pless  you — " 

"  Betsy,  my  child,  your  neighbor  at  the  corner  of  the  lane,  wishes  to 
see  you  for  a  moment.  So  she  told  me.  You  can  go  and  see  her,  while 
I  eat  my  supper.    That's  a  dear  woman." 

Betsy,  all  unconscious  of  a  Lie  from  the  lips  of  the  Reverend  man, 
hurried  through  the  gate,  telling  him  in  her  good-humored  way — "  Make 
yerself  at  home,  Dominie,  and  tont  spare  te  vittels." 

Jacopo  listened  intently  for  the  last  echo  of  her  footsteps — glanced 
cautiously  around — and  then,  with  the  steal thiness  of  the  cat,  combin 
with  the  agility  of  an  ape,  he  sprang  into  the  branches  of  the  oaken  tree. 

It  only  required  a  moment  to  traverse  the  crooked  limb ;  he  stood  upon 
the  peak  of  the  widow's  cabin,  with  the  gloomy  window  of  the  Haunted 
House  within  the  reach  of  his  arm. 

Again  Jacopo  listened — his  heart  beat  wildly— all  was  stilL  and  sha- 
dowy around — no  voice  nor  ray  came  from  the  dark  aperture,  by  which 
he  was  about  to  enter  the  mansion. 

Jacopo  hesitated  ;  he  cast  a  longing  glance  toward  the  crooked  limb, 
and  then  his  eye  rested  lovingly  upon  the  supper,  spread  so  temptingly 
beneath  the  leaves. 

"Shall  I  return?  I  can  escape  to  Philadelphia,  and  get  beyond  the 
reach  of  this  Demon  ?" 

Poor  Jacopo  was  in  his  saddest  Puzzle  !  To  go  forward  was,  per- 
chance, to  encounter  the  Devil  in  bodily  form  ;  but  to  go  backward  was 
— and  no  perchance — to  meet  the  Gallows! 

"  I'll  risk  the  Perchance !"  said  Jacopo,  as  he  felt  for  the  mysterious 
letter,  in  the  depth  of  his  pocket.    "  Now  then,  for  the  last  Puzzle  ?" 

Shivering  all  over  as  with  an  ague  chill,  he  drew  himself  up  to  the 
window,  and  with  a  groan  plunged  into  the  garret,  and  into  the  darkness 
of  the  Haunted  House. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


407 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVENTH. 

THE  VAGABOND  AGAIN. 

His  heels  had  scarce  disappeared  within  the  window,  when  the  foot- 
step of  Betsy — light  and  tripping  for  such  a  substantial  beauty — was  heard 
in  the  garden. 

"  Why,  Dominie,  how  could  you  tell  sich  a  rib,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she 
burst  through  the  gate,  "  Tere  aint  nopody  at  home  over  the  way,  but  the 
cat,  andt — "  she  gazed  wonderingly  through  the  gloom,  which  was  only 
broken  by  a  broad  streak  of  light  pouring  from  her  cabin  door.  "  Goti 
pless  us  !    The  Dominie's  gone  too  !" 

The  Reverend  man  was  indeed  gone  ;  but  in  his  place  at  the  table  under 
the  oak,  appeared  the  tall  figure  of  the  old  man,  whose  costume  of  rags, 
combined  with  his  sudden  spasms,  had  made  such  an  impression  on  the 
good  widow,  not  an  hour  before. 

His  cheeks  resting  on  his  hands,  while  his  staff  leaned  against  his 
chair,  he  sat  beside  the  table,  with  his  back  turned  to  the  light.  His  grey 
hair,  stirred  gently  by  the  evening  breeze,  was  only  touched  by  a  glimpse 
of  light ;  all  the  rest  of  his  form  was  wrapped  in  vague  shadow.  He  did 
not  heed  the  approach  of  the  widow,  nor  raise  his  head,  but  remained 
as  motionless  as  the  trunk  of  the  old  tree,  whose  branches  fluttered 
above  him. 

The  widow  started  back  when  she  first  became  aware  of  this  unex- 
pected Apparition,  with  as  much  terror  as  a  thoroughly  bred  lady  would 
experience  at  the  sight  of  a  spider  dangling  playfully  before  her  nose. 

"  You  here  agin  !" 

The  old  man  did  not  manifest  the  least  consciousness  of  her  presence. 
"  Did  you  put  the  Dominie  in  yer  pocket  ?" 

Still  the  same  statue-like  immovability ;  not  a  word  or  gesture  from 
the  ragged  wanderer. 

"  He  aint  teadt  is  he  ?  It  aint  decent  to  come  and  die  dis  way,  afore  a 
lone  woman's  toor.    It's  rale  ornery — " 

"  Betsy,"  the  old  man  spoke,  but  in  a  tone  so  changed  and  deep,  that 
the  good  woman  felt  an  involuntary  thrill  pervade  her  veins  at  every 
accent;  "I've  been  in  the  graveyard—" 

"  Lordt !  He's  peen  in  the  graveyard  !"  gasped  the  Widow  sinking  into 
a  chair — "  Toes  he  sleep  there  o'  nights  ?" 

"  I  saw  a  white  tombstone,  very  plain  indeed,  but  to  all  appearance  re- 
cently placed  there.  It  bore  neither  the  record  of  a  birth  nor  a  death,  only 


408 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


the  simple  words  4  To  the  Memory  of  Madeline  V  There  was  no  grave; 
no  sign  of  a  buried  corpse. 

"Beside  this  tombstone,  I  saw  another,  also  new  and  white, and  without 
a  grave.  4  To  the  Memory  of  Gilbert  Morgan.''  Now,  Betsy  I  want  you 
to  tell  me  what  it  all  means  ?  Gilbert  Morgan  I'm  sure  did  not  die  in 
these  parts,  and  as  for  this  Madeline — is  it  the  same  of  whom  you  spoke 
awhile  ago  ?" 

"  The  fery  same,"  replied  Betsy  as  the  old  man  turned  his  head  and 
bent  the  full  light  of  his  .eyes  upon  her  face,  which  illuminated  by  the  rays 
from  the  cabin  doorway,  betrayed  in  every  feature,  a  mingled  and  inex- 
plicable emotion. 

"  Madeline  is  dead,  then?''  the  voice  of  the  old  man  was  lower,  deeper, 
— his  gaze  made  Betsy  afraid. 

"  To  pe  sure, — everybody  says  so,"  she  replied,  hesitating  on  every 
word. 

"  She  is  buried  beneath  that  tombstone?    You  don't  mean  to  say  it?" 

Thus  speaking  the  old  man  rose,  and  grasped  her  firmly — rather  rudely 
— by  the  wrist,  as  she  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  belt  of  light. 

Betsy  shrunk,  she  knew  not  why  from  his  intense  look.  She  '  felt 
afraid'  at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  So  tall,  so  poverty-stricken,  so  way- 
worn, and  yet  in  such  an  attitude  of  command,  that  white-haired  old  man 
stood  before  her,  while  the  silence  of  evening  was  all  around,  grasping 
her  by  the  wrist  and  urging  his  question,  in  a  firm  emphatic  tone,  that  the 
good  Widow  felt  her  blood  tingle  and  grow  cold  by  turns,  and  at  the  same 
time  could  not  turn  her  eyes  away  from  his  face. 

"  It's  none  of  my  pizness.  Go  a-way  !  Jist  let  go  my  handt  if  you 
please  !" 

The  blood  rushing  once  more  to  her  face,  she  shone  out  in  all  her  dig- 
nity, radiant  as  the  full  moon  after  an  eclipse. 

"  Very  well,  my  child, — "  the  old  man  laughed — "Just  as  you  please. 
I'll  light  my  pipe  and  go  on  my  way." 

And  then  with  a  cool  impudence  that  thrilled  Betsy  to  the  heart,  he 
strode  very  leisurely  along  the  walk,  and  disappeared  into  the  door  of  her 
cabin.  She  saw  him,  in  a  moment,  in  the  act  of  lighting  his  pipe  by  her 
candle.  She  waited  for  him  to  come  forth,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  be  at 
all  hurried,  for  while  the  dame,  in  all  the  palpitations  of  fear  and  wonder, 
stood  hesitating  under  the  oak,  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  rushed  from  the 
cabin  door.  Should  she  call  the  neighbors  ?  Should  she  summon  the 
magisterial  dignataries  of  Germantown,  to  take  the  stranger  into  custody, 
and  commit  him  to  prison  under  a  serious  charge  of  poverty  and  rags  ? 

"  But  ten  he  may  tell  the  folks  apout  my  poor  Adam,"  was  the  thought 
of  the  widow,  as  boldly  turning  her  steps  to  the  door,  she  resolved  to  en- 
ter her  cottage,  and  dare  the  worst. 

She  entered.    A  tallow  candle,  inserted  in  an  iron  candlestick,  which 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHlKON. 


409 


stood  upon  an  oak  table,  revealed  the  cleanly  features  of  the  apartment, 
whose  whitewashed  walls  sequestered  Betsy's  charms,  —  and  cider 
— r-from  the  gaze  of  the  profane  world.  It  was  the  principal— almost  her 
only  room.  It  was  cleanly  to  a  fault.  The  walls  were  white  as  her  ker- 
chief ;  the  floor  scrubbed  and  sanded  to  the  last  extremity  of  cleanliness  ; 
from  the  open  cupboard  in  one  corner,  her  burnished  pewter  shone  like 
silver  ;  the  very  table  on  which  the  candle  stood,  looked  as  if  Betsy  had 
been  polishing-  it,  under  the  strong  impression  that  it  was  made  of  some 
kind  of  precious  metal,  and  would  shine  like  a  looking  glass  some  day. 

In  the  way  of  ornament,  or  luxury,  there  was  a  round  Dutch  clock 
hung  in  one  corner,  with  its  pendulum  and  chain,  swinging  away,  over  the 
white whashed  wall — free  from  any  thing  like  a  case — and  reminding  you 
of  a  transfixed  beetle,  dangling  its  broken  legs  in  \he  air.  A  looking  glass 
too,  shone  from  the  wall,  near  the  clock,  its  walnut  frame,  adorned  with  a 
boquet  of  roses,  violets,  and  lilies,  in  the  centre  of  which,  by  way  of  cap- 
ping the  climax,  was  placed  a  huge  sun-flower.  Over  the  broad  but  fire- 
less  hearth,  hung  two  dingy  and  smoke-darkened  engravings,  one  repre- 
senting a  Shepherdess,  feeding  her  lamb,  and  the  other  picturing  the  re- 
nowned Doctor  Faustus,  in  the  act  of  selling  his  soul  to  the  Devil. 

These  pictures  were  evidently  the  work  of  some  Flemish  artist,  who — 
deluded  by  no  vague  idea  of  the  ideal  or  spiritual  in  beauty — took  for  his 
rule,  Bulk  for  Expression,  and  Quantity  for  Grace.  The  Shepherdess 
was  a  fat,  blooming  dame — more  substantial  even  than  the  good  Widow 
herself — -and  the  lamb  which  she  was  feeding,  was  evidently  a  Premium 
Lamb,  in  its  way,  for  it  was  lost  in  a  wilderness  of  white  wool,  and 
seemed  big  enough  to  feed  a  whole  corporation  of  Aldermen.  As  for 
Doctor  Faustus  he  was  a  jolly  Burgomaster,  with  cheeks  like  pippins  and 
a  nose  like  a  red  hot  coal ;  the  very  Devil  himself  was  inclined  to  fatness, 
and  looked  as  if  his  only  drink  was  beer. 

Such  was  the  apartment  into  which  the  ragged  wanderer,  had  intruded 
with  so  little  ceremony. 

He  was  seated  in  the  arm  chair,  near  the  table,  anxiously  perusing  a 
slip  of  paper,  which  he  held  near  the  light.  As  he  read,  he  smoked,  and 
seemed  determined  not  only  to  make  himself  perfectly  at  home,  but  to 
wrap  his  visage  in  an  impenetrable  fog  of  tobacco. 

"Some  folks  seem  to  make  'emselves  at  home—any  how,"  said  the 
Widow  rather  sarcastically. 

"  Betsy,"  said  the  old  man  without  raising  his  gaze  from  the  slip  of 
paper,  "  How  shall  I  get  inside  of  the  Haunted  House  ?" 

The  question  was  asked  very  calmly — almost  carelessly— and  yet  the 
Widow  could  not  believe  her  ears.  From  some  cause  or  other,  not  yet 
revealed  to  us,  the  very  name  of  the  Haunted  House,  made  Betsy's  dim- 
ples disappear  in  one  ominous  frown,  while  her  capacious  bust  heaved 


410 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


under  the  white  kerchief,  and  the  color  went  and  came  on  her  plump 
cheeks,  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning. 

"Wot  did  you  say?"  she  cried, — rising,  folding  her  white  arms  over 
her  bust — and  looking  into  the  old  Man's  face  with  eyes  like  saucers. 

"  The  Haunted  House.  That  is  what  I  said.  How  shall  I  get  into  it? 
You  must  know.  You  live  next  door.  It  would  be  funny  if  you  did  n't." 

And  the  old  fellow  puffed  and  read,  as  if  for  a  wager. 

"  Tont  you  know  that  house  is  Ha'nted  ?  Tere's  spooks  and  ghosts 
and  te  oldt  Sam  himself  in  it ;"  said  Betsy  waving  the  forefinger  of  her 
right  hand  with  an  ominous  gesture. 

"  The  very  thing  I'd  like  to  see.  Why  bless  your  soul  I  never  saw  a 
ghost  in  my  life.    I'd  sooner  see  one  than  eat  my  supper." 

"  Then  go  into  it,  and'see  'em.    I  tont  hinder  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  good  girl,  but  you  do  hinder  me.  How  shall  I  get  in  ?" 
looking  keenly  at  her,  from  the  shadow  of  his  uplifted  hand — "  You  ought 
to  know  ?" 

"  Me  !"  cried  Betsy  in  a  spasm  of  virtuous  indignation — "  Do  I  look 
as  if  I  had  any  thing  to  do  with  ghosts  ?" 

She  certainly  did  not.  No  ghost — save  the  Ghost  of  a  Flemish  painter 
— but  would  have  been  frightened  at  the  exuberant  life  of  her  full  moon 
face. 

The  old  man  rose,  and  advanced  toward  the  hearth  with  a  measured 
stride. 

"  This  is  a  fine  closet, — this  between  the  fire-place  and  the  wall,"  and 
as  he  spoke  he  turned  the  button  of  the  closet  door. 

It  did  indeed  seem  as  if  these  words  and  the  accompanying  action,  had 
frozen  every  drop  of  blood  in  Betsy's  veins.  Her  hands  dropped  on  her 
lap  ;  she  muttered  a  prayer  in  German. 

"  Let's  see  what's  inside  o'  't,"  said  the  ragged  wanderer.  Betsy  with 
colorless  face  and  expanding  eyelids,  watched  his  every  movement.  He 
opened  the  door,  and  the  closet,  wide  and  roomy,  with  oaken  panels,  was  laid 
bare  to  the  light. 

"  Rather  singular,  Betsy,  the  back  part  of  the  closet,  is  bolted — d'  ye 
hear  ?  Bolted  just  like  a  door  !  Where  does  it  lead  you  to  ?"  the  old  man 
turned  his  face  over  his  shoulder,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  sneering  gri- 
mace— "  Into  the  next  house,  may  be  ?  Ho,  ho,  my  girl  did  you  think  to 
fool  me  ?" 

Betsy  slid  from  the  chair  upon  her  knees. 

"Tont!  Tont!  For  Gott's  sake,  tont!"  she  gasped,  clasping  her 
hands,  while  a  mingled  look  of  terror  and  entreaty  convulsed  her  face — 
"  You  tont  know  what  you  do — you  tont  know  what  you  do — "  and  she 
wrung  her  hands  as  she  knelt  upon  the  floor. 

The  old  man  with  his  finger  on  his  lip,  regarded  her  for  a  moment  with 
a  searching  look. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


411 


"There  is  more  in  all  this  than  meets  the  eye,  by  Jove  ! — "  he  ad- 
vanced, and  took  the  candle  from  the  table,  "  By  the  Lord  Harry,  but  I 
believe  this  paper  tells  the  truth.    We'll  see." 

Candlestick  in  hand,  he  entered  the  closet  and  drew  the  bolt,  and  at  the 
same  moment  Betsy  bounding  from  the  floor,  crossed  the  room  with  a 
spring,  and  grasped  him  nervously  with  both  hands. 

The  old  man  started  as  he  beheld  the  terror — the  wild  affright — the 
almost  grotesque  entreaty  painted  on  her  face 

"If  you  go  on  I'll  holler  murter  !"  she  whispered,  clenching  his  right 
arm  with  both  hands. 

44  Do  so  !  Call  the  neighbors,  and  after  I've  told  'em  of  poor  Adam's 
death,  I'll  tell  them  that  there's  been  a  murder  committed  in  the  next 
house,  and  myself  and  the  neighbors  will  go  in  together.    Holler  Betsy!" 

The  widow  as  if  utterly  unnerved  by  this  threat  relaxed  her  grasp,  and 
fell  back  into  a  chair. 

"  Gott  pity  me  !  Gott  pity  me  !"  and  she  wrung  her  hands,  while  the 
tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHTH 

THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 

The  old  man  drew  the  bolt,  and  the  back  panel  of  the  closet  opened 
like  a  door.  Light  in  hand,  he  peered  across  the  gloomy  threshold,  the 
rays  streaming  over  his  shoulders,  and  marking  his  figure  in  a  bold  relief 
against  the  darkness. 

"  A  door  cut  through  the  thick  stone  wall  into  the  Haunted  House  !"  he 
muttered,  and  crossed  the  threshold. 

Betsy  as  if  driven  to  the  last  extremity  of  despair,  uttered  a  groan, — a 
muttered  prayer  in  German— and  the  old  man  thoroughly  steeled  against 
her  groans  and  prayers,  closed  the  door  after  him,  and  secured  it  by  a  bolt, 
which  glided  into  the  thickness  of  the  wall. 

"  She's  prayin'  — "  he  murmured,  listening  at  the  panel — "  What  in  the 
deuce  is  the  matter  with  the  good  woman  ?" 

Raising  the  light,  he  examined  the  features  of  the  place.  There  are 
certain  faces,  which  strike  you  at  first  sight  with  an  inexplicable  feeling, 
which  mingles  terror  the  most -instinctive  with  fascination  the  most  irre- 


412  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR 

sistible.  You  hate  such  a  face  at  first  sight,  and  yet  cannot  turn  your 
eyes  away  from  it.  It  suggests  at  once  the  idea  of  some  terrible  crime, 
or  of  suffering  too  deep  for  tears. 

So  in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  where  withered  leaves  give  their  harsh 
echo  to  your  lonely  tread,  and  gloomy  pines  shuts  out  the  daylight  from 
your  face,  you  sometimes  chance  upon  a  scene  that  fills  you  with  the 
same  indescribable  emotion  of  mingled  terror  and  fascination.  This  scene 
may  be  a  lonely  pool  sunken  in  the  hollow  of  herbless  rocks,  and  looking 
as  if  the  foot  of  man  had  never  profaned  its  solitude — it  may.  be  a  cavern, 
hollow  and  vast,  and  agitated  with  the  murmurs  of  dripping  water — it 
may  be  a  grassy  glade  in  the  thick  woods,  full  of  herbage  and  flowers,  and 
yet  so  terribly  still,  so  utterly  isolated ;  without  the  hum  of  a  bee  to  break 
its  stillness,  or  the  mark  of  a  footprint  to  disturb  its  profound  loneliness. 

Still  in  every  ease  this  scene  of  nature  makes  its  mark  upon  your  soul ; 
leaves  there  forever  a  sensation  of  fascination  combined  with  terror. 

If  there  are  faces — if  there  are  scenes  in  wild  nature — that  possess  this 
singular  power,  so  it  has  often  seemed  to  me,  there  are  chambers  in  old 
and  deserted  mansions  that  have  a  character  all  their  own ;  that  strike  you 
at  once  with  a  shudder  and  a  joy ;  that  pervade  your  whole  being  with 
the  memory  of  a  vivid  pleasure  and  the  dim  consciousness  of  a  hideous 
crime. 

It  was  a  chamber  such  as  this,  in  which  the  old  man  stood  lifting  the 
candle  above  his  head. 

It  was  wide  and  spacious.  The  ceiling  was  lofty  ;  the  walls  panelled 
with  sombre  wood.  Along  the  window,— looking  perchance  into  the 
garden — hung  curtains  of  rich  texture  and  purple  dye.  The  hearth  was 
broad  and  roomy,  and  above  extended  the  mantle,  adorned  with  a  thousand 
intricate  carvings. 

Such  were  the  general  outlines  of  the  place,  and  yet  it  impressed  the 
heart  of  the  gazer,  with  that  mingled  feeling— a  shuddering  fear,  an  over- 
whelming fascination. 

Had  the  thousand  figures  sculptured  on  the  panelled  walls,  dusky  now 
with  dust  and  time  ever  witnessed  scenes  of  misery — of  crime — enacted 
upon  the  glittering  mahogany  floor  ?  Had  the  lofty  ceiling  ever  echoed 
the  shrieks  of  outraged  maidenhood,  or  the  last,  low,  gurgling  groan  of 
life—life  snapt  in  twain  by  the  hand  of  Murder  ?  That  fire  place  so 
broad  and  roomy, — how  many  scenes  had  its  fires  lighted  in  days  bygone, 
how  many  happy  faces  had  clustered  in  its  glow, — faces  of  the  Child  too 
new  from  Heaven  to  know  Sin,  of  the  Maiden  just  palpitating  into  Love, 
of  the  Aged  waiting  with  gray  hairs,  and  sluggish  blood  for  Death  to  come 
and  chill  them  into  dust ! 

Thoughts  like  these  steal  on  the  mind  in  one  of  those  ancient  chambers 
of  a  deserted  home.  It  seemed  to  the  awed  intruder  upon  this  silent 
place,  as  if  the  isolated  room — big  with  memories — had  a  Soul. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAUIKON. 


413 


The  old  man  looked  silently  about  the  place,  while  the  candle  held 
aloft  in  his  right  arm,  cast  its  rays  over  his  long,  white  hair,  and  beard 
waving  on  his  breast ;  over  his  tall  frame,  clad  in  beggar's  rags,  and  made 
a  circle  of  light  around  him,  leaving  all  beside  in  twilight  obscurity. 

"  I  have  seen  a  Face,  which  reminds  me  of  this  room  !"  he  said— and 
started  at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

The  Face  which  he  remembered  had  a  terror  also,  for  he  trembled  as 
he  spoke  of  it,"  although  his  eyes  grew  more  vivid  in  their  light. 

"  This  is  the  place,"  he  said,  "  The  very  room  of  which  poor  Adam 
spoke  as  he  died  in  my  arms.  '  I  had  thought  to  take  advantage  of  it  my- 
self he  said, — how  his  white  lips  quivered,  as  the  words  were  uttered 
with  his  passing  breath  !  i  but  I'll  never  see  home  agin'.  Then  he  gave 
me  this  paper,  and  says  he,  'if  Betsy's  alive  be  kind  to  her — don't  let  her 

come  to  want,  comrade,  or  I'll  haunt  you,  by  !'    About  an  hour 

after  that  he  died." 

The  old  man  placed  the  light  upon  the  mantel,  and  held  before  its  rays 
the  slip  of  paper,  which  he  so  anxiously  perused  not  many  minutes  before. 
It  was  dingy  and  worn  as  though  it  had  been  handled  many  a  time  by 
rough  fingers,  and  the  characters  traced  upon  it,  were  written  in  a  bold 
yet  rugged  hand.  The  words  which  it  bore  were  few, — without  comma 
or  period — and  to  all  appearance  without  a  meaning. 

Four  rooms  on  the  lower  floor  The  Room  next  the 
garden     south     of    the     hall    under     the  Harp 

"  Under  the  Harp,"  murmured  the  old  man,  passing  around  the  room 
light  in  hand,  and  examining  with  a  keen  glance  the  carvings  which 
adorned  the  panels  :  "  Here  are  angels  and  devils,  and  all  sorts  of  odd  im- 
ages cut  in  black  wood,  but  as  for  a  Harp — hey  1  Let's  see  ?  Nothing 
3'  th'  kind  here, — nor  here  —  zounds  !    I  must  have  mistook  the  room." 

He  traversed  the  room  many  times,  not  only  perusing  the  panels  as 
hough  they  were  the  leaves  of  some  precious  book,  but  carefully  exam- 
ning  the  figures  carved  upon  the  mantel-piece,  and  raising  the  candle 
bove  his  head,  as  he  attentively  surveyed  the  ceiling.  His  search  was 
lowever  in  vain. 
Nothing  like  the  figure  of  a  Harp  met  his  gaze. 

"Yet  Adam  believed  in  it ;  a  straight  story,  too,  and  told  just  before  he 
lied.    If  I  find  it — if  the  story  is  true— if — if — curses  upon  that  if!" 

He  clenched  his  right  hand,  pressed  his  nether  lip  between  his  teeth, 
nd  muttered  an  oath  as  he  glided  on  tip-toe  along  the  dusky  floor. 

"If  !    Then  I  may  escape,  yes  escape  from  this  " 

He  paused  ;  the  words  died  on  his  tongue,  as  though  a  sudden  memory 
id  frozen  his  utterance.    Trembling — writhing  in  every  nerve — his  face 


414 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


distorted  and  his  eyes  sunken  in  their  sockets— he  seemed  to  struggle  and 
struggle  in  all  the  bitterness  of  despair,  with  a  more  than  mortal  anguish. 

"  What  ray  of  hope  ?  Not  one — not  one  !  Like  a  man  buried  alive, 
I  feel  the  coffin  lid  upon  my  breast,  but  cannot  move." 

He  placed  the  light  upon  the  mantel,  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands. 

We  may  not  picture  the  full  agony  of  that  moment,  nor  reveal  the 
cause  of  the  old  man's  measureless  woe !  Scalding  tears  were  on  his 
cheeks — with  a  curse  he  dashed  them  away,  and  raised  his  flashing  eyes 
toward  the  light. 

"  I  must  be  gone.  I  must  leave  this  place.  There  is  work  for  me, — a 
dog's  work  and  a  devil's  wages  !" 

Turning  away,  his  eye  was  arrested  even  as  he  raised  the  light,  by  a 
small  hook  which  projected  from  the  panel  above  the  mantel.  There  was 
a  belt  suspended  from  this  hook,  a  belt  of  many  dyes,  whose  vivid  con- 
trasts glared  upon  him  from  the  dark  background  of  the  wainscot.  He 
seized  the  belt  with  an  eager  gesture  ;  he  held  it  to  the  light ;  it  needed 
no  second  glance  to  ascertain  its  use  and  purpose. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINTH. 

THE  BELT  OF  WAMPUM. 

It  was  a  Belt  of  Wampum,  woven  with  those  hieroglyphs  which  are 
letters,  learning,  Memory  to  the  Red  Man. 

"  The  Belt  of  Yoconok!"  he  gasped,  in  a  broken  whisper. 

Then,  as  if  this  wampum  string,  rich  with  the  enigmas  of  the  Indian's 
history,  brought  home  to  him  — the  wandering  beggar — some  memory  of 
his  own  life,  in  hues  of  terrible  distinctness,  he  sank  upon  his  knee  and 
his  head  dropped  on  his  breast.  Upon  the  broad  stones  of  the  hearth  he 
knelt,  while  the  light  from  above  shone  upon  his  gray  hairs,  as  they  trem- 
bled with  the  strong  impulse  which  shook  his  frame. 

Before  his  fixed  eyeballs,  upon  the  very  slab  on  which  he  knelt,  the 
figure  of  a  Harp  appeared,  sculptured  in  the  dim  red  stone.  He  saw  it 
but  heeded  it  not.  . 

Impelled  by  some  unknown  but  powerful  cause,  he  had  sought  for  i 
earnestly  and  long,  but  now  that  it  was  thrust  upon  his  sight,  he  did  no 
think  it  worthy  of  a  moment's  thought. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


415 


The  Wampum  Belt,  which  he  grasped  with  a  quivering  hand,  carried 
his  soul  to  other  days  ;  called  up  before  him  the  face  of  the  beautiful 
and — Dead. 

"  How  came  it  here  ?"  he  gasped,  "  Whose  work  is  this  ?  Is  it  another 
trick  of  the  Devil, — or  can  it  be  a  token  of  forgiveness  ?" 

Starting  from  the  hearth  he  seized  the  light,  his  features  quivering  and 
his  eye  rolling  wildly,  as  he  hurried  to  the  door  of  the  chamber. 

*'  I  must  search  this  den,"  he  cried,  with  an  oath — "  For  the  living  I  do 
not  care,  and  as  for  the  dead,  there  is  one  now  sleeping  in  the  sod  who 
would  not  harm  even  me." 

Then  out  into  the  gloomy  and  silent  hall,  with  its  broad  staircase  and 
dusky  wainscot,  he  hurried,  and  through  the  rooms  of  the  lower  floor, 
rooms  stored  with  antique  furniture,  but  still  and  breathless  as  the  grave. 
Massive  mirrors  returned  the  rays  of  his  candle  in  broken  flashes  ;  velvet 
carpets  gave  no  echo  to  his  frenzied  step ;  pictures  framed  in  gold  and 
seen  in  mingled  light  and  shadow,  seemed  to  sneer  and  scowl  as  he 
.went  by. 

Three  gorgeous  chambers  were  those  on  the  lower  floor,  with  dust  and 
cobwebs  upon  their  antique  furniture  ;  with  their  windows  sealed  from  the 
light  of  sun  or  star ;  their  very  atmosphere  breathing  of  desolation  and  decay. 

The  old  man  searched  them  all,  and  then  his  foot  was  on  the  wide 
staircase  which  led  toward  the  upper  rooms  of  the  forsaken  house.  Me 
listened — there  was  no  sound.  A  night  deeper  and  more  death-like  than 
the  night  without,  reigned  through  the  place.  The  old  man  went  up  the 
stairs,  and  reached  the  last  step,  when  a  sudden  blast — like  the  air  pour- 
ing through  an  open  door — extinguished  his  light. 

He  was  alone,  in  the  thick  darkness,  alone  in  the  intense  night  of  that 
Haunted  House.  Haunted  indeed  to  him,  for  the  Wampum  Belt  which 
he  grasped,  evoked  the  Ghosts  of  memory,  and  he  saw,  even  through 
the  darkness,  a  pale  face  and  a  blood-bedabbled  breast,  as  he  had  seen  them 
in  other  days. 

Clasping  the  railing  of  the  staircase — afraid  of  his  own  footstep's  echo, 
—  he  peered  through  the  darkness,  while  his  heart  leaped  to  his  throat. 
Slowly,  as  his  eyes  became  more  accustomed  to  the  gloom,  he  became 
conscious  that  a  broad  window,  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  was  open,  with 
a  gleam  of  starlight  and  a  breath  of  evening  air  stealing  through  its  parted 
curtains.    This  window  looked  out  upon  the  neglected  garden. 

There  was  a  long  pause  of  hesitation  and  doubt.  The  old  man,  com- 
pletely bewildered  by.  a  train  of  irresistible  emotions,  aroused  into  life  by 
sight  of  the  Wampum  Belt,  knew  not  which  way  to  turn.  That  vast, 
gloomy,  soundless  old  mansion,  struck  him  with  a  mysterious  interest  and 
yet  with  a  creeping  terror. 

"  Curses  on  it !  The  light  is  gone,  and  I  dont  know  which  way  to 
move.    What  hand  opened  that  window  ?    Can  this  dreary  old  place  be 


xl3  .  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

occupied  ?  Shall  I  move  forward,  and— perhaps— fall  over  a  coffin  in  the 
dark,  or  feel  the  bony  fingers  of  a  skeleton  ag'inst  rny  cheek." 

Turning  his  face  from  the  direction  of  the  window,  he  peered  into  the 
darkness  of  the  corridor,  when  lo  !  that  darkness  was  broken  by  a  sudden 
and  quivering  ray.  A  ray  that  flashed  into  the  gloom,  lighting  up  the 
dusky  walls,  and  then  was  gone ! 

The  old  man  held  his  breath,  but  felt  his  heart  mount  to  his  throat. 

"  Was  it  a  fancy  o'  mine — I  believe  I'm  goin'  mad—" 

That  ray  once  more,  flashing,  not  across  the  corridor,  but  from  its  far- 
ther extremity,  and  quivering  in  a  long  line  over  the  dark  floor,  into  the 
very  eyes  of  the  bewildered  man  ! 

"  Hah  !  This  passage  does  n't  extend  through  the  house  like  the  one 
on  the  lower  floor — only  half-way — and  it  is  terminated  not  by  a  door — 
no  !    That  ray  came  through  a  curtain — I'd  swear  it." 

Hurrying  along  on  tip-toe,  like  a  man  who  is  conscious  that  the  next 
moment  may  plunge  him  into  some  frightful  surprise,  he  presently  touched 
the  curtain  with  his  extended  hands.  He  dashed  it  aside — his  convulsed 
features,  framed  in  the  waving  hair  and  beard,  were  bathed  in  a  gush  of 
light. 

It  was  the  light  of  a  tall  waxen  candle,  which  illumined  a  silent  and 
deserted  apartment.  Hesitating  on  the  threshold,  the  old  man  took  in 
the  features  of  the  place  at  a  glance.  Circular  in  form,  hung  with  dark 
hangings,  the  ceiling  lofty  and  the  floor  glittering  like  a  mirror,  this  room 
presented  vividly  to  his  gaze,  a  table  or  altar,  covered  with  a  snow-white 
cloth,  and  thrown  into  bold  relief  by  the  sombre  background. 

In  the  centre  of  this  altar  the  waxen  candle,  in  a  candlestick  of  silver  ; 
above  from  the  dark  wall,  an  image  of  the  Saviour  glowed  in  the  light;  and 
a  massive  volume  lay  open  upon  the  altar  cloth. 

The  old  man  advanced — wondering — pale — with  every  faculty  of  his 
soul  dilating  with  an  intensity  of  suspense.  These  objects — the  table,  the 
Crucifix,  the  Book — alone  disturbed  the  sullen  uniformity  of  the  circular 
apartment. 

"It's  the  Bible,"  he  whispered,  bending  over  the  book,  "An'  that 
Image  looks  as  if  it  came  from  a  South  American  Church." 

Clutching  the  Wampum  Belt  with  unconscious  force,  the  old  man  sur- 
veyed the  apartment,  while  its  silence  and  gloom  imbued  his  very  being 
with  an  awe  which  he  endeavored  in  vain  to  dispel. 

Hark!  Was  it  a  footstep — or  the  sound  of  the  breeze,  among  these  dim 
curtains  ?  His  arms  dropped  by  his  side;  he  bent  his  head,  and  listened — 

Again  that  sound,  like  the  echo  of  a  footstep ;  it  came  near  and  nearer, 
it  resounded  beyond  those  hangings. 

The  old  man  glided  back  into  the  darkness  of  the  corrider,  and  at  the 
same  instant  that  step  was  heard  within  the  apartment,  which  he  left. 

There  was  a  pause  ;  an  unbroken  stillness  ;  the  old  man,  holding  his 


V 

THE  MONK  OF  THE  WJSSAHIKON.  417 

breath,  in  the  very  extremity  of  suspense,  and — it  may  be—terror,  lis- 
tened by  the  curtains  but  dared  not  look  through  their  folds. 

How  the  images  of  his  aroused  soul — the  images  of  memor)' — of  crime 
— seemed  to  take  shape,  in  that  moment,  and  glare  before  him,  through 
the  night  of  the  corridor  ! 

At  length  he  gathered  courage :  parting  the  curtains  without  a  sound, 
he  looked  within. 

A  white  form  was  kneeling  before  the  white  altar,  beneath  the  Divine 
Image,  with  hands  like  marble,  clasped  above  her  head,  whose  long  and 
flowing  hair,  fell  on  her  shoulders,  pure  and  beautiful  as  snow. 

The  face  he  could  not  see,  but  the  white  hands  clasped  above  the  head, 
— the  pure  skin  of  the  half-covered  shoulders,  gleaming  through  the  inter- 
vals of  the  waving  brown  hair — met  his  gaze  and  yet  he  could  not  for  a 
moment  believe  that  he  beheld  a  living  being.  * 

It  was  the  form  of  a  woman,  rounded  and  full,  as  though  the  bud  of 
maidenhood,  had  just  opened  its  leaves,  and  ripened  into  perfect  bloom. 
The  robe  which  clothed  it,  was  white  and  loose  and  flowing  and  yet  it 
could  not  hide  the  outlines  of  a  shape,  which  slender  and  full  of  grace, 
was  yet  stamped  in  the  rich  mould  of  voluptuous  loveliness. 

Beneath  the  folds  of  the  robe,  the  feet  appeared,  small  and  beautiful,  and 
looking  like  marble,  when  contrasted  with  the  dark  floor. 

It  was  like  the  image  of  a  Marble  Nun,  kneeling  in  the  Sanctity  of 
some  cathedral  shrine  ;•  an  image  of  deathless  purity,  centered  among 
images  of  gloom  and  death. 

It  was  no  ghost ;  nor  marble  form,  but  a  breathing  and  beautiful  woman, 
full  of  life  ;  with  warm  blood  coursing  through  her  veins.  That  glimpse 
of  her  shoulders,  seen  through  the  mazes  of  the  brown  hair,  told  the  story 
of  a  young  and  beautiful  shape. 

And  the  poor  wretch,  clad  in  rags,  clutched  the  curtains  with  trem- 
bling hands,  and  looked,— while  a  ray  of  light  shining  upon  his  eyeballs, 
showed  that  they  flashed— grew  dim  with  tears — and  burned  into  life  again. 

Was  it  a  voice  that  he  heard  ?  Low,  whispering,  scarcely  audible,  a 
voice  breathing  words  of  prayer. 

Had  the  world  been  his  to  give,  he  would  have  given  it,  but  to  catch 
one  glimpse  of  her  face.  She  did  hot  move — her  hands  above  her  dark 
hair,  she  seemed  gazing  into  the  face  of  the  Crucified. 

What  name  was  that,  mingling  with  her  prayer  ?  The  wandering  wretch 
who  looked,  and  listened — with  eyes,  and  ears  and  soul — felt  the  cold 
sweat  start  from  his  forehead. 

It  was  the  name  of  a  Criminal  ;  of  a  man  doomed  to  walk  the  earth 
with  a  curse  upon  his  soul ;  a  man  capable  of  the  highest  deeds  but  im- 
mersed in  vices  the  most  repulsive, — a  Murderer. 

And  yet  the  unknown  prayed  for  this  wretch — but  no,  it  could  not  be. 
The  listener  had  not  heard  aright. 

27 


413  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  0  that  she  would  rise,  and  look  this  way  !  It's  worth  ten  lives  to 
look  upon  that  face  but  no  !    It  cannot  be.    I'm  only  dreamin'." 

She  rose,  and  took  the  light  and  gazed  slowly  around  the  room.  And 
then  passed  through  the  hangings,  and  all  was  darkness.  But  he  had  seen 
her  face,  her  neck  and  shoulders,  with  a  gleam  of  the  spotless  breast, 
heaving  above  the  ruffle  of  her  loosened  robe.  She  was  gone,  but  that 
face  was  painted  on  the  darkness — stamped  upon  his  soul. 

11  By  !"  he  cried,  sinking  helplessly  on  the  floor — "  It's  Madeline !" 


CHAPTER  THIRTIETH. 

THE  OUTCAST  IN  THE  CHAMBER  OF  MADELINE. 

How  long  he  knelt «he  knew  not,  but  when  full  consciousness  came  back 
again,  he  found  himself  in  the  darkness,  grasping  the  curtains  of  that  lone 
room,  with  stiffened  fingers,  and  clutching  still — with  his  right  hand — the 
Wampum  Belt  of  Yoconok. 

An  hour  may  have  passed  since  that  bright  Presence  shone  before  the 
solitary  altar. 

"  I  must  begone — "  he  muttered,  pressing  his  hand  against  his  damp 
forehead.  "  There  is  work  for  me  yonder,  among  the  hills — the  hand  that 
leads  me,  neither  man  nor  devil  can  resist.  But  no  !  Not  until  I  have 
found  out  the  secret  of  this  place — not  until  " 

There  came  a  Thought  which  chilled  every  vein. 

He  rose,  and  as  if  guided  by  some  strange  instinct — or  by  Destiny  — 
he  soon  discovered  the  passage  by  which  the  beautiful  form,  had  entered 
the  lone  room.  . 

Along- this  passage  he  stumbled,  in  the  darkness  of  course,  until  he  sud« 
denly  passed  between  the  hangings,  and  found  himself  in  a  large  and 
spacious  chamber,  where  a  single  light — the  waxen  candle  of  the  place 
of  prayer — was  dimly  burning. 

"  It  is  the  room  above  the  one,  by  which  I  entered  this  house — "  the 
thought  flashed  upon  him,  as  he  gazed  around.  "But  where  is  she?  Hah! 
Yonder, — in  the  arms  of  her  Husband — or  paramour  !" 

A  strange  thing  it  was  to  see  that  robust  old  man,  stand  so  tattered  and 
wayworn,  in  the  mingled  light  and  gloom  of  that  luxurious  chamber. 
\Upon  the  threshold,  his  brow  knit, — the  eyes  flashing  with  a  look  of  omi- 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  419 

nous  brightness — his  lips  drawn  tightly  over  his  set  teeth — there  he  stood, 
clenching  his  hands,  as  he  surveyed  the  place. 

The  light  stood  upon  an  antique  bureau,  whose  jet-black  wood,  was 
surmounted  by  a  large  mirror.  That  mirror,  dimly  glittering,  reflected  the 
bed  which  stood  opposite,  with  snowy  curtains  drawn  together, — the  car- 
pet of  velvet— the  hangings  of  crimson  silk — and  the  wan  haggard  figure, 
standing  on  the  threshold,  the  livid  face,  gazing  in  scorn  upon  all  this 
splendor. 

It  certainly  did  not  look  like  the  Haunt  of  a  Ghost.  The  harp  near 
the  curtained  bed,  was  evidently  swept  by  no  spectral  hand ;  that  dress 
of  black  velvet,  embroidered  with  gold  was  not  intended  to  clasp  the  cold 
form  of  the  dead ;  those  jewels,  scattered  over  the  bureau  were  not  de- 
signed to  display  their  radiance,  save  upon  the  white  brow  or  panting 
breast  of  a  young  and  passionate  woman. 

— Even  as  I  write,  there  is  a  picture  of  that  scene  before  me.  It  is 
rudely  sketched  upon  a  blank  space  in  the  original  Manuscript,  from  which 
this  history  is  derived.  Rudely  sketched  with  pen  and  ink,  and  brown 
with  age,  and  yet  it  makes  its  mark  upon  the  soul. 

It  is  but  a  picture  of  a  wild  and  haggard  figure — the  very  type  of  po- 
verty and  age — standing  amid  the  hangings  of  a  lofty  and  spacious  room, 
and  gazing  with  an  indescribable  scorn,  upon  its  luxurious  display.  In 
one  corner,  a  snow-white  couch,  with  curtains  closely  drawn,  glares  from 
the  darkness  ;  and  the  scene  is  lighted  by  a  solitary  candle,  which  glitters 
into  the  smooth  surface  of  a  mirror  framed  in  gold,  like  a  star  shining  into 
a  waveless  pool.  The  Harp,  the  costume  of  velvet,  the  jewels  on  the 
bureau,  all  are  sketched  ;  and  from  the  curtains  of  the  bed,  appears  a  hand 
and  arm,  which  at  once  enchain  your  gaze  with  their  faultless  outline. 
Indeed,  gaze  upon  the  picture  as  often  as  you  will,  your  eye  at  last  alter- 
nates between  that  haggard  face,  and  the  half-revealed  arm  of  the  unknown 
sleeper. — 

"  Sleeping  ?  Hah  !  The  sound  of  her  breath,  and  his  mingling  together. 
A  look  by  Jove,  only  one,  ho,  ho  !  Satan  peepin'  into  Eden — " 

Half-muttering  these  words,  the  aged  vagabond  or  outcast,  as  you- will, 
drew  near  the  bed,  his  hand  wandering — instinctively  perchance — to  the 
knife  whose  hilt  appeared  at  his  girdle,  among  his  rags.  He  reached  forth 
his  hand  to  grasp  the  curtain,  but  as  suddenly  withdrew  it,  and  started 
backward,  as  if  swayed  by  a  new  impulse. 

Treading  on  tip-toe  he  approached  the  antique  bureau.  His  haggard 
face  was  reflected  vividly  in  the  mirror,  by  the  rays  of  the  candle.  He 
recognized  it  with  a  grim  smile,  indeed  his  laughter  deep  and  mocking  and 
bin  half  suppressed,  sounded  unlike  the  mirth  of  a  human  being. 


420  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  Ho  !  What  have  we  here  !  Letters,  —  ah,  ha  !  Let  me  make  myself 
at  home,  and  peruse  at  my  leisure  these  precious  memorials  of  love !" 

This  man  so  uncouth  in  his  attire,  so  various  in  his  speech-^now  utter- 
ing the  broken  words  of  deep  and  sincere  emotion,  now  sneering  at  his 
very  agony,  and  turning  his  Fear  into  a  jest — reached  forth  his  hand,  and 
grasped  a  mass  of  manuscript,  which  was  laid  upon  the  cloth  of  the  bu- 
reau, among  the  jewels. 

"  A  fine  hand,  too, — delicate  and  woman-like  !  Confessions  of  love  for 
the  Rich  and  Titled,  mingled  with  curses  for  the  outcast  and  murderer. 
By  the  Fiend!"  he  pressed  his  hand  suddenly  to- his  forehead.  "It  seems  to 
me  that  this  is  some  feverish  dream  !" 

Then  seating  himself  in  an  arm  chair,  with  its  high  back  between  the 
light  and  the  bed,  he  glanced  over  the  manuscript.  While  the  sound  of 
the  sleeper's  breath,  broke  softly  on  the  deep  silence,  the  old  man  gazed 
eagerly  upon  those  pages,  which  seemed  to  reveal  the  mystery  of  a  Wo- 
man's Life.  On  the  first  page,  in  a  hand  tremulous  yet  bold  was  written, 
title  of  the  Manuscript. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIRST. 

CONFESSION  OF  MADELINE. 

"  How  shall  I  ever  recall  the  events  of  that  fatal  night !  My  blood 
chills  at  the  memory,  and  yet  a  fascination  which  I  cannot  resist  impels 
me  to  make  the  record. 

"  Afar  from  my  native  land,  surrounded  by  scenes  of  luxury  and  splen- 
dor, my  heart  pants  for — Home !  Home  !  In  all  the  world  there  is  no 
home  for  me  but  Wissahikon.  Could  I  but  drink  of  its  waters  once  more, 
— stand  for  a  moment  among  its  rocks  and  trees,  and  sunlight  and  sha- 
dows— the  next  moment  I  would  be  willing  to  die.  Then  a  grave  amid 
those  scenes  of  Wissahikon  !    Alas  !  Alas  !  " 

When  the  old  man  had  read  thus  far  he  laid  down  the  Manuscript  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hand.  Many  moments  elapsed  before  he  re- 
sumed the  reading. 

"Let  me,  by  recording  the  events  of  that  fatal  night,  endeavor  to  bring 
home  the  rocks  and  trees  of  Wissahikon  !  Strange  and  mysterious  events 
— was  ever  fate,  so  dark  and  yet  so  inexplicable  as  mine  ?" 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


421 


— The  reader  paused  again,  and  cast  his  flashing1  eye  toward  the  bed  on 
which  the  unconscious  sleeper  lay. 

"  It's  no  dream,"  he  muttered  "  I'm  awake  I  believe  ! — " 

"  I  remember  unclosing  my  eyes,  in  that  familiar  room  of  my  child- 
hood's home,  and  even  now,  I  can  see  his  face  lowering  upon  me,  as  I  lay 
stretched  upon  the  floor.  That  was  a  fearful  look — like  madness — which 
stamped  his  features,  as  awaking  from  my  swoon,  I  reached  forth  my 
arms  to  him  and  murmured,  Gilbert!    And  yet  he  stabbed  me  " 

— The  paper  dropped  from  the  old  man's  hands.  He  saw  his  face  in 
the  glass,  those  sunburnt  features  framed  in  white  hair,  and  livid  as  death, 
and  started  back,  as  though  horror-stricken  at  the  Image  of  his  soul, 
painted  in  the  glittering  mirror.  Again  a  pause  ensued.  Still  the  sleeper 
rested  in  her  luxurious  couch,  unconscious  that  the  eyes  of  a  wanderer, 
an  outcast,  had  profaned  the  sanctity  of  her  chamber. 

"  Consciousness  returned  once  more.  I  awoke — looked  around — the 
room  of  my  childhood's  home  was  gone.  Could  I  believe  my  senses — 
was  I  enveloped  by  the  horrors  of  a  nightmare  ?  A  pale  blue  light  shone 
in  my  face,  as  I  awoke,  and  gave  a  ghastly  radiance  to  the  arches  and  pil- 
lars of  a  grave  vault.  Yes,  my  form  unclothed,  my  limbs  arranged  in 
the  attitude  of  death,  I  was  about  to  be  shut  up  forever  in  the  slumber  of 
the  grave.  Nay — I  was  buried  already — the  arches  of  my  tomb  were 
around  me  ;  that  pale  light,  was  the  ghastly  meteor,  which  hovers  over 
the  festering  decay  of  the  charnel. 

"  The  horror  of  that  moment  I  shall  never — never  forget ! 

"  I  started  up,  and  dragged  my  stiffened  limbs  over  the  cold  floor,  and 
felt  a  sharp  pain  shoot  through  my  bleeding  breast.  I  was  buried  alive. 
— Thank  God  !  There  was  an  open  door,  yes  the  entrance  of  the  tomb 
was  open.  I  hurried  through  into  the  cold  and  darkness,  and  without 
knowing  whither  I  fled,  ascended  stairway  after  stairway,  and  fell  fainting 
at  last  upon  a  bed,  which  stood  in  the  shadows  of  a  large  and  gloomy 
chamber.    I  had  escaped  the  grave — I  knew  no  more  

"  After  a  troubled  sleep,  broken  by  a  frightful  dream, — in  which  I  saw 
his  face  and  the  uplifted  knife — I  woke  once  more,  and  became  conscious 
that  a  woman's  form  was  slumbering  at  my  side.  I  reached  forth  my  arm, 
and  with  a  shriek  the  unknown  woman  bounded  from  the  bed.  Looking 
through  the  curtains  I  saw  her  stand,  so  beautiful  in  the  centre  of  the 
gloomy  room — It  was  the  Wizard's  daughter  !  That  lovely  girl,  whose 
face  I  had  often  seen,  in  the  forest,  although — as  she  swept  so  proudly  by 
me — I  had  never  exchanged  a  word  with  her. 

"  The  truth  rushed  upon  me  ;  I  was  in  the  house  of  Isaac  the  Wizard. 
My  heart  was  ice — an  overwhelming  fright,  made  me  tremble  from  head 
to  foot.  I  remembered  the  scene  of  the  night  before,  when  in  the  silence 
of  the  wintry  woods,  beside  the  dead  body  of  Yoconok,  I  met  the  pale  old 
man,  Isaac  Van  Behme.    I  remembered  his  prediction,  as  he  took  my 


422 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM ;  OR, 


hand,  and  chilled  me  with  the  wild  unnatural  look  of  his  eyes — «2Vo  Bridal 
Ring  shall  ever  cross  this  hand.  No  child  shall  ever  bless  your  sight.  I  read 
it  in  the  lustre  of  your  eye,  which  is  lighted  by  the  fire  of  a  changeless 
Destiny  !  Alas  !  Alas  /  I  pity  and  rejoice  !  Dishonor  and  a  Sudden 
Death  tvill  soon  be  yours!'' " 

— The  old  man  raised  his  eyes  ;  he  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot 
like  a  withered  leaf.  His  visage  displayed  at  once  a  kind  of  rugged  sym- 
pathy mingled  with  a  vague  amazement.  

"  This  was  the  Prophecy,  which  he  had  uttered  only  the  night  before. 
What  fearful,  what  incredible  events  had  followed  that  Prophecy  !  Not 
Dishonor,  no  !  no  !  Temptation  is  not  sin  ;  we  may  look  over  a  dizzy 
height  and  not  fall  " 

— "Madeline!"  muttered  the  old  outcast,  when  he  had  read  this  sen- 
tence, "Thank  God!  Thank  God  !—" 

"  But  the  wound  inflicted  by  Gilbert's  hand  was  still  bleeding ;  my 
breast  was  stained  with  clotted  blood.  And  now,  for  what  was  I  reserved  ? 
The  supernatural  atmosphere  investing  the  very  name  of  the  Wizard — 
the  wild  stories  toL»  about  the  hearths  of  Wissahikon,  concerning  his  com- 
pact with  the  Fiend — his  Prophecy  uttered  to  me,  only  the  night  before, 
a  Prophecy  almost  fulfilled  by  events  so  sad  and  appalling — thoughts  and 
memories  like  these  filled  me  with  terror  worse  than  death  itself. 

"  Meanwhile  the  Wizard's  daughter,  pale  and  beautiful  and  convulsed 
with  affright  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  rending  the  air  with  her 
shrieks.  Two  figures  appeared,  Black  David,  the  miserable  deformed  of 
Wissahikon — " 

—  The  old  man  uttered  an  ejaculation,  and  bent  down  to  the  MSS. 
with  a  more  intense  interest  flashing  from  his  eye. — 

— "And  Isaac  the  Wizard.  I  can  only  remember  that  with  the  blood 
oozing  from  my  breast,  I  sprang  from  the  bed,  and  clutched  the  beautiful 
girl  by  the  knees.  Save  me  !  Save  me  !  These  words  I  uttered  and  then 
all  was  a  blank, — a  blank  only  disturbed  by  the  never-fading  vision  of 
Gilbert's  face,  convulsed  with  the  purpose  of  Murder,  and  Gilbert's  arm 
quivering  the  knife  above  my  naked  breast." 

— "  This  Gilbert  must  have  been  an  infernal  scoundrel,"  said  the  old 
man,  with  a  sardonic  smile.  "I  should  like  to  meet  him  some  day  !"  And 
then  he  laughed  to  himself  as  though  he  had  uttered  an  excellent  jest,  and 
turned  to  the  Manuscript  again.  

"  How  well  I  remember  it,  that  day  when  the  dream  passed  away,  and 
I  found  myself  stretched  upon  a  comfortable  couch,  with  the  air  of  spring, 
fresh  with  the  breath  of  violets,  blowing  gently  through  the  unclosed  win- 
dow of  a  large  and  luxuriously  furnished  apartment.  My  room  in  the 
Haunted  House  of  Gerrnantown  !" 

— "Hah  !  The  Haunted  House!"  ejaculated  the  reader.  

"Then  first  appeared  my  unknown  friend,  that  kind  Protector,  who 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


423 


has  since  wound  himself  about  my  heart  by  innumerable  acts  of  kindness, 
but  whom  still — it  is  ungrateful,  it  is  wicked!  I  can  never  look  upon, 
without  a  tremor,  a  shudder.'' 

— It  was  terrible  to  see  the  expression  which  darkened  the  old  man's 
face,  as  grasping  the  Manuscript  with  both  hands,  he  held  it  closer  to  his 
eyes,  devouring  every  word  with  a  gloating  intensity. — 

"He  drew  near  my  bedside.  How  well  I  remember  the  impression 
made  upon  me  by  his  face,  his  form  !  While  the  sun  was  stealing  through 
the  unclosed  window,  I  saw  a  man  of  some  sixty  years,  with  short  gray 
hair  and  a  pale  melancholy  face,  stand  near  me,  with  his  hands  upon  his 
breast.  His  attire,  which  indicated  by  its  fashion  and  texture,  the  gentle- 
man of  rank  or  wealth,  could  not  altogether  conceal  the  defects,  I  cannot 
say,  deformities  of  his  shape.  As  he  advanced,  I  saw  that  he  was  lame ; 
his  limbs  mis-shapen,  and  his  broad  shoulders  rising  in  an  unsightly 
hump.  But  his  face,  so  pale, — so  steeped  in  melancholy — the  forehead 
bold  and  high,  with  a  single  lock  of  gray  hair  falling  down  the  centre  ;  his 
lips  wearing  a  sad  yet  gentle  smile,  the  eyes  seeming  as  though  they  did 
not  shine,  but  burn  in  their  sockets.  —  I  could  not  help  being  won  to  that 
face,  and  at  the  same  time  I  regarded  it  with  a  shudder.  Such  was  my 
first  impression  of  that  kind  friend,  who  has  been  to  me,  Father,  World, 
Home  ;  who  has  unclosed  to  my  soul  the  golden  worlds  of  Music,  Paint- 
ing, Poetry ;  who  has  borne  me  from  land  to  land,  and  taught  the  poor 
Orphan  Girl  of  Wissahikon  to  mingle  unabashed  with  the  throngs  of 
fashion,  the  liveried  crowds  of  a  royal  court.  Still,  one  drink  from  the 
waters  of  the  Wissahikon  were  worth  it  all !' 

— "  Wissahikon  !  It's  a  sweet  word,  and  yet  you  were  stabbed  there, 
girl,  by  the  hand  of  this  Gilbert — this  murderer."  The  old  man  did  not 
wipe  away  the  tear  that  rolled  down  his  cheek.  He  read  on;  the  Manu- 
script revealed  a  strange  escape  from  the  grave. — 

44  He,  my  more  than  friend,  near  my  bed — even  now  I  hear  his  voice, 
whose  tones  charm  the  soul  like  bursts  of  subdued  music : 

" 4  The  hand  of  the  Murderer  struck  in  vain.  You  are  weak  and  faint, 
my  child,  but  the  wound  is  healed.  Well  was  it  for  you  that  his  hand 
trembled !' 

44  4  But  Gilbert,'  I  cried,  raising  myself  languidly  upon  my  bed — 4  Gil- 
bert !  They  have  loaded  him  with  chains,  they  have  hurled  him  into 
prison.  O,  hasten  to  him ;  let  him  be  free  !  He  was  my  friend,  almost 
my  Husband — ' 

44  4  Gilbert,'  said  my  Protector,  4  Gilbert  is  d^ad.' 

44  4  1  heard  no  more.    Ifr  was  a  long  time  before  I  unclosed  my  eyes.' 

44  4  And  thou,  fair  child,  shalt  leave  these  scenes.  I  will  be  to  thee  as 
Father ;  thou  shalt  be  my  Daughter.  These  people  who  have  wronged 
thee,  shall  never  behold  thy  face  again.  Wilt  thou  go  with  me  to  the  end 
of  the  world  ?' 


424 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  His  gaze  penetrated  me  with  an  inexplicable  fascination.  I  could 
not  help  it — I  stretched  forth  my  arms,  and  said,  ' Father  !'  The  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks,  and  then  he  muttered  wildly  to  himself. 

"  *  How  was  I  saved — '  I  asked. 

"'On  that  night  I  was  journeying  through  the  forest  of  Wissahikon, 
when  a  poor  deformed  wretch  placed  in  my  arms  the  body  of  a  half- 
naked,  and  almost  lifeless  maiden.  Black  David  gives  thee  this — he  said, 
with  a  wild  laugh,  and  disappeared.' 

"  'Black  David  !  The  poor  deformed  !  He  saved  my  life  then — saved 
me  from  the  Wizard — ' 

" '  Black  David  is  dead,'  said  my  Protector,  in  a  mournful  tone,  and 
then  told  me  how  he  had  borne  me  to  this  house,  keeping  my  very  exist- 
ence a  secret  from  the  village  folk,  while  himself  and  a  kind-hearted  woman 
watched  by  my  bedside.  It  was  many  days  before  I  recovered  my 
strength.  One  night  we  left  the  '  Haunted  House,'  and  since  that  hour 
my  heart  has  never  ceased  to  long  for  Wissahikon." 

When  the  aged  man  had  read  this  passage,  he  started  from  the  chair 
and  drew  near  the  bed,  whose  curtains  enshrined  the  sleeper. 

"  Black  David  was  more  merciful  to  you  than  Gilbert !"  he  muttered — 
and  touched  the  white  hand  as  it  projected  from  the  curtains.  Touched 
the  hand,  with  a  gentle  and  respectful  movement,  even  as  a  Devotee  would 
press  the  hand  of  a  marble  divinity. 

"  Sleep  on,  sleep  on,"  muttered  the  Outcast,  as  the  sound  of  her  breath 
stole  on  the  stillness,  "  You  can  sleep  in  safety,  for  Gilbert,  the  Murderer, 
is  dead." 

Gliding  back  to  the  light,  he  contemplated  the  Manuscript  of  Madeline 
with  a  look  of  profound  emotion. 

"  There's  much  food  for  thought  in  your  words,  young  girl,  and  it 
makes  a  man's  brain  boil  like  hot  lead,  but  to  read  your  sufferin's.  One 
more  glance,  and  then  I'll  go.    What  business  has  the  devil  in  Eden?" 

Once  more  he  took  up  the  Confessions  of  Madeline. 

"  How  shall  I  ever  record  that  scene.  There  are  no  words  in  human 
speech  to  describe  it ;  even  now,  the  memory  of  that  incident  perplexes 
and  confounds  me.  It  occurred  on  the  Twenty-Third  of  November, 
1775.  We  were  sitting  in  our  quiet  home  among  the  hills  of  Yorkshire. 
The  leaves  were  falling;  from  our  window,  a  wide  sweep  of  brown  heath 
stretched  sullenly  toward  the  river  shore,  and  the  mists  of  autumn  curled 
slowly  about  the  distant  hills. 

"  My  Protector  was  unusually  sad. 

«  '  My  child,'  said  he,  seating  me  in  a  chair  tfefore  him,  and  taking  my 
hands  within  his  own,  '  This  is  a  day  dedicated  to  an  awful  memory.  The 
blackest  day  in  the  long  calendar  of  three  hundred  years.'  His  eyes 
assumed  a  strange  glassy  intensity ;  they  were  fixed  upon  me  with  over- 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


425 


whelming  power.  4  On  this  day,  sinless  virgin,  thou  mayst  save  a  soul, 
which  without  thee,  will  be  lost  forever. 

"  His  voice  went  to  my  heart.  And  yet,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I 
fell  asleep,  even  while  he  held  my  hands  and  looked  into  my  eyes.  My 
eyelids  grew  weary  ;  I  struggled  and  wrestled  with  the  slumber  which 
came  over  me,  but  in  vain.  It  was  not  sleep,  in  the  familiar  sense.  No  ! 
My  body  was  numbed;  paralyzed  ;  I  could  not  move  a  finger,  but  my  Soul 
was  awake,  free,  and  full  of  life.  O,  the  calm  delight  of  that  moment !  I 
was  conscious  that  my  Protector  was  there ;  I  heard  his  voice,  felt  his 
presence,  and  yet  my  body  was  paralyzed  in  a  strange,  unnatural  sleep. 
But  my  soul :  it  was  like  a  bird  suddenly  set  free,  soaring  into  the  sky, 
high  and  higher,  with  unbroken  light  upon  its  wings.  Then  it  was  like 
a  waveless  Lake,  set  in  the  hollow  of  some  mountain  top,  without  a  breeze 
to  stir  its  glassy  surface,  even  into  the  faintest  ripple,  without  a  sound  to 
break  the  profound  stillness  of  its  borders, — calm,  calm, — unutterably 
calm.* 

"  Then  a  new  consciousness  crept  over  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the 
Soul  of  my  Protector  talked  with  mine ;  that  I  heard  the  Thoughts  of  his 
soul,  spoken  in  a  voice  without  a  sound;  such  a  voice  as  we  imagine 
when  reading  a  favorite  book  alone ;  it  was,  in  a  word,  as  though  his  Soul 
had  taken  the  place  of  mine,  filling  my  whole  being  with  its  power. 

"  While  in  this,  state,  an  incident — or  shall  I  call  it  a  vision  ?  took 
place,  which  I  have  never  been  able  to  comprehend  or  explain.  Let  me 
record  it  as  it  appeared  to  me ;  it  is  beyond  my  hope  to  depict  either  its 
causes  or  its  full  details;  some  broken  glimpses  of  that  incident — that 
Truth  or  Dream— are  all  that  the  poverty  of  words  enable  me  to  describe. 

"  Thus  it  seemed  to  me  : 

"  My  Soul  escaping  from  the  body,  which  sat  dumb  and  paralyzed,  in 
the  chair  before  my  Protector's  gaze,  My  soul  traversed  a  space  of  some 
hundreds  of  years  back  into  time,  and  hovering  invisible  in  the  air  of  a 
half-lighted  chamber,  beheld  a  deed  which  took  place  in  the  Sixteenth 
Century. 


*  Was  this  magnetism  ?  The  Author  has  experienced  sensations  precisely  simi- 
lar, while  in  *  the  magnetic  state,'  as  it  is  technically  termed.  Some  years  ago,  he 
was  magnetized  by  the  learned  and  eminent  Dr.  Nott,  President  of  Union  College, 
a  man  above  suspicion  of  trickery  or  deceit  of  any  kind.  The  sensation  was  one 
of  unutterable  calmness ;  the  Physical  Being  in  a  state  of  paralysis,  while  the 
Mind  was  in  possession  of  all  its  powers,  and  as  clear  and  serene  as  a  sky  without 
a  cloud.  There  are,  indeed,  no  words  in  language  to  express  this  state.;  you  might 
as  well  try  to  paint  a  finished  picture  with  brick  dust  and  a  dry  stick,  as  to  attempt 
the  delineation  of  the  magnetic  sleep  by  the  words  of  human  speech.  At  the  same 
time,  the  author  frankly  confesses,  that  he  would  not  believe  any  thing  like  magne- 
tism, had  he  not  experienced  a  portion  of  its  phenomena  in  bis  own  person.  G.  L. 


426 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  It  was  in  a  room  in  some  guard  old  Feudal  Castle,  lighted  by  a  single 
lofty  and  pointed  window,  which  looked  to  the  western  sky,  where  huge 
white  clouds,  were  glowing  in  the  setting  sun.  Even  now  I  can  see  that 
chamber,  with  high  ceiling  and  dark  purple  tapestry, — nay  I  can  feel  the 
atmosphere  of  gloom,  which  seemed  to  brood  over  its  antique  splendor, 
even  as  the  broad  gleam  of  sunshine,  came  through  the  casement.  There 
was  the  effigy  of  a  Knight  in  armor,  near  the  window,  glittering  sullenly 
in  the  light ;  and  in  the  shadows  stood  a  massive  couch,  overhung  with 
drapery,  and  crowned  with  a  Lordly  crest. 

"  Near  the  window,  where  the  sunshine  was  brightest  sat  a  woman  of 
surpassing  beauty,  clad  in  black  velvet,  embroidered  with  gold,  with  her 
hair,  falling  unrestrained  over  her  shoulders.  She  did  not  look  like  an 
English  woman  ;  there  were  no  looks  of  golden  hair,  twining  about  a 
sunny  face.  No  !  Her  hair  was  black  as  jet ;  her  eyes  large,  dark  and 
wildly  brilliant ;  her  pale  forehead,  shaded  by  the  jetty  hair,  was  invested 
with  a  lofty,  almost  hallowed  beauty.  She  was  very  young  ;  her  form, 
so  fragile  and  girlish,  seemed  to  tell  the  story  of  s  venteen  summers,  but 
her  face,  pale  and  beautiful,  stamped  with  unspeakable  grief,  indicated  that 
in  suffering  at  least,  she  had  already  lived  a  life-time. 

"  And  upon  her  young  breast — it  was  bare,  and  her  black  robe,  made  it 
seem  whiter  than  marble — hung  a  babe,  not  more  than  three  months  old. 
A  very  tiny  thing,  that  slept  so  calmly  in  the  sunset  rays,  and  laid  its  little 
marble  hand,  upon  its  young  mother's  midnight  hair. 

"  No  words  can  tell  how  passingly  beautiful  this  lone  woman  and  her 
babe,  seeemed  to  me ;  the  babe  smiling  in  its  sleep  ;  the  mother  so  sad 
and  thoughtful  amid  all  this  splendor. 

"Suddenly  I  became  conscious  of  another  form.  It  was  a  man,  dressed 
in  a  garb,  that  mingled  strangely  the  costume  of  the  Monk  with  the  sol- 
dier. He  came  from  the  darkness,  stole  softly  behind  the  Mother,  and 
then  I  saw  his  face.  The  sun  shone  upon  it ;  I  beheld  it,  and  it  is  before 
me  now  in  clear,  distinct  and  terrible  outlines. 

'« M  was  the  face  of  my  Protector  !  but  oh  !  how  changed,  how  dis 
torted  as  with  the  conflict  of  infernal  passions ! 

"  He  stood  behind  the  Mother's  chair— unseen  and  scowling — his  lip 
tightening  as  he  saw  the  babe,  nestling  upon  her  white  breast.  Then  I 
heard  his  voice — " 

" '  Leola  my  wife,  this  is  the  Twelfth  of  November,  he  whispered — 
«  Dost  thou  remember  last  year?' 

"  Before  she  could  turn  her  face  to  look  upon  him,  nay  before  her  part- 
ing lips  could  frame  a  word,  his  arm  rose  above  her  head — a  sharp  blade 
flashed  in  the  air — and  the  face  of  the  child,  was  covered  with  blood ; 
blood  which  spouted  from  the  mother's  breast.  Yes,  the  blade  was  bu- 
ried to  the  hilt — the  golden  hilt,  which  shone  upon  that  snowy  breast, 
amid  the  gushing  blood,  as  if  in  very  mockery  of  the  deed. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHlKOiN. 


427 


"  The  young  mother  did  not  fall ;  she  did  not  even  stir.  But  even  as 
she  sat  there  in  the  chair,  grasping  her  babe,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  hei 
Husband's  face  and  died.  Her  lips  moved  just  before  her  eyes  grew 
fixed  and  glassy — I  would  have  given  the  world  to  have  heard  her  words 
— but  her  voice  was  inaudible.  She  spoke  to  him  as  she  died,  but  that 
low  whisper  melted  unheard  upon  the  air." 

"  And  the  Husband,  now  convulsed  with  a  Remorse  as  terrible  as  his 
Crime,  bent  over  the  dead  body,  as  it  sate  erect,  and  with  repeated  out- 
cries, seemed  determined  to  wrench  her  last  words,  from  her  pale  cold 
lips. 

"  At  this  moment,  I  heard  the  voice  of  my  Protector's  send,  speaking  to 
mine.  Yes,  it  may  seem  extravagant, — mad — but  while  my  Protector 
clasped  the  hands  of  my  unconscious  body,  his  Soul  spoke  to  mine,  even  as 
that  Soul  was  an  invisible  witness  to  a  terrible  scene  of  a  long  past  age. 
And  thess  are  the  words,  which  that  soundless  voice  spoke  to  me  :  , 

"'Madeline  !  Thy  soul  is  now  a  silent  witness  of  the  Deed  which  took 
place  centuries  ago.  Thy  soul  now  hovers  above  his  guilty  face — above 
her  mangled  form.  Tell  me,  O  tell  me  in  the  name  of  the  Murdered 
Mother,  and  remember  the  fate  of  an  immortal  soul  hangs  on  thy  an- 
swer, tell  me.  didst  thou  hear  the  last  words  which  quivered  on  her  lips, 
ere  she  died  V 

My  soul  framed  its  answer : 

"*  No  !  No  !  Her  lips  moved,  but  her  words  I  could  not  hear !' 

"  Then  the  entire  scene  passed  away.  The  vision,  or  the  spell,  term  it 
what  you  will,  passed  away.  I  awoke  ;  the  blood  stirred  in  my  veins 
with  a  slow,  languid  motion  ;  I  unclosed  my  eyes,  and  found  myself  sit- 
ting in  the  chair,  with  the  hands  of  my  Protector — my  Father  shall  I  call 
him  ?  clasping  my  arm. 

"Never  shall  I  forget  the  expression  of  his  face!  His  eyes  burned  with 
more  than  mortal  lustre,  his  features  were  horribly  distorted  ;  his  quiver- 
ing lips  were  spotted  with  foam,  and  the  lock  of  gray  hair,  swept  aside 
from  his  forehead  revealed  the  cicatrice  of  a  hideous  wound,  in  the  form 
of  a  Cross. 

"  '  Go  to  !  Go  to !  Thou  couldst  not  hear  her  last  words  ?  Is  it  so  ? 
Then  the  blood  of  Leola  does  not  course  in  thy  veins — thou  art  not  of 
my  race — some  beggar's  offspring,  I  trow,  left  by  thy  gipsy  mother,  in  the 
woods  of  Wissahikon  !' 

"  As  his  face,  deformed  by  unnatural  agony,  writhed  before  my  gaze,  it 
seemed — shall  I  write  it  down,  that  vague  improbable  suspicion  ? — yes  it 
seemed  to  me,  that  I  did  not  behold  my  kind  Protector,  my  Father,  but 
Black  David,  the  poor  Deformed  of  Wissahikon. 

"  He  turned  away  with  curses,  and  fell  insensible  at  my  feet,  his  eyes 
glassy,  and  the  white  foam  hanging  about  his  lips." 


428  PAUL  ARDENHEIM ;  OR, 

— The  old  man  lingered  over  this  passage,  while  his,  eyes,  sunken  be- 
neath his  white  brows,  glimmered  with  a  sombre  and  glassy  light.  Not 
a  word  passed  his  lips  ;  the  emotion  which  convulsed  his  frame,  was  only 
indicated  by  his  heaving  chest  and  corrugated  features.  He  turned  to  the 
last  paragraph  of  the  Manuscript.    It  was  dated  June  first,  1777.  

"  Wissahikon  !  I  have  not  seen  it  yet,  but  soon — very  soon  I  hope  to 
stand  among  its  leaves  and  flowers,  and  drink  of  its  waters.  Once  more 
I  find  myself  wrapt  in  the  solitude  of  the  Haunted  House — my  Protector, 
leaves  me  for  hours,  for  days  alone.  When  I  beseech  him  to  permit  me 
to  see  theWissahikon  once  more,  he  answers — always  in  the  same  words, 
and  with  a  strange,  sad  smile,  1  Not  yet,  not  yet.  Wait  my  child ;  the 
appointed  time  will  soon  be  here.' 

" To-day  as  I  was  thinking  of  'the  old  times,'  when  the  poor  Orphan 
Girl  dwelt  in  the  woods  of  Wissahikon,  without  a  care,  I  fell  asleep 
and  dreamed  a  strange  dream.  The  branches  of  those  dear  old  trees,  were 
once  more  over  my  head  ;  I  was  seated  upon  the  moss,  beside  'the  Indian 
Spring'  whose  clear  waters  sparkle  in  the  hollow  of  a  rock.  Every  thing 
seemed  full  of  peace  ;  bees  were  humming  in  the  wild  flowers  ;  birds 
sang  in  the  trees,  a  wild  tremulous  song,  that  burst  upon  me  like  music 
from  Paradise;  the  sunshine  came  through  the  thickly  woven  branches,, 
and  a  single  ray  shone  down  into  the  bosom  of  the  spring.  I  was  happy, 
O  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  my  heart  rose  with  the  notes  of  the  bird,  and 
soared  away  in  thankfulness  to  God.  Gilbert  was  there,  dressed  in  his 
plain  hunter's  costume,  with  his  rifle  on  his  knee,  as  in  the  days  of  old. 
Nay  the  Wampum  Belt  which  Yoconok  gave  me  was  clasped  in  our 
joined  hands,  as  a  token  of  unbroken  faith,  and  I  looked  into  his  frank 
honest  face,  without  a  fear.  There  was  no  sorrow  upon  his  features,  and 
as  his  eye,  rested  upon  me,  he  told  me  in  a  low  voice  how  he  would  build 

a  cottage  in  the  woods,  and  I  should  be  his  little  wife  and  .  But 

at  this  point  of  my  dream,  a  drop  of  blood,  fell  from  the  branches  of  the 
tree,  into  the  very  bosom  of  the  spring.  That  drop  widened  slowly,  un 
til  the  clear  water  in  the  rocky  basin,  looked  like  a  pool  of  blood.  I  gazed 
upward  in  horror,  and  among  the  branches  saw  a  hand,  grasping  a  dying 
Dove,  and  crushing  it  slowly  to  death.  It  was  the  hand  of  Peter  Dorf- 
ner :  I  saw  his  face,  grinning  in  triumph,  among  the  leaves.  Even  as  I 
looked,  another  face  was  there,  framed  in  the  leaves,  the  visage  of  my 
Protector, — his  lips  were  impressed  with  a  cold  sad  smile,  his  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  me,  with  a  look  that  chilled  my  blood.  I  started  up  in  horror, 
and  flung  my  arms  around  Gilbert's  neck,  beseeching  him  to  save  the 
dying  Dove  from  the  grasp  of  its  murderer,  when  a  hand  was  lightly  laid 
upon  my  shoulder,  and  a  low  deep  voice,  breathed  my  name.  Turning 
my  head,  even  as  I  clung  to  Gilberts  breast,  I  saw  the  face  of  Reginald — " 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


429 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SECONDe 

MADELINE  AND  THE  OUTCAST. 

Here  the  Manuscript  abruptly  ended.  The  name  of  Reginald  was  the  last 
word. 

The  old  man,  sat  perfectly  motionless,  absorbed  in  thought.  One  hand, 
grasping  the  Manuscript  shook  with  a  nervous  tremor;  the  other,  shading 
his  eyes,  could  not  conceal  the  tears  which  rolled  one  by  one,  over  his 
sun-burnt  face. 

And  while  he  sat  before  the  mirror, — an  image  of  poverty  and  wretch- 
edness, encircled  by  the  dim  splendor  of  that  chamber — the  sound  of  the 
sleeper's  breath  broke  gently  on  the  stillness,  mingling  with  his  half-ut- 
tered groans. 

"  Reginald  !"  he  whispered,  "  And  who  is  Reginald  ?  Ah,  a  light 
breaks  in  upon  me  !  Soh, — good  girl,  it  was  Reginald,  who  put  his  hand 
upon  your  shoulder  as  you  clung  to  Gilbert's  neck  ?  And  you  think 
kindly  of  Gilbert,  too,  but  your  1  Confessions'  end  with  the  the  name  of 
Reginald.    That  means  a  great  deal;  a  world  o'  meanin'  in  that  word — " 

The  outcast  rose,  and  with  unsteady  footsteps  approached  the  bed.  His 
lips  moved  without  a  sound,  as  he  went,  and  once  or  twice  his  hand  wan- 
dered instinctively  to  the  hilt  of  his  knife.  Presently  he  stood  beside  the 
couch,  his  face  turned  from  the  light,  gazing  in  silence  upon  the  beautiful 
hand  and  arm,  which  appeared  among  the  white  curtains. 

"  An'  that  hand  has  toyed  with  Reginald's  chesnut  curls,  as  his  kisses 
warmed  her  lips  !" 

Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  the  old  man  parted  the  curtains  and  looked 
within, — his  right  hand  all  the  while  laid  upon  the  hilt  of  his  knife. 

In  the  mysterious  twilight  of  the  curtained  couch,  she  slept,  her  cheek 
resting  on  her  bent  arm,  her  dark  brown  hair,  rising  and  falling  with  the 
pulsations  of  her  half-uncovered  breast.  The  fringes  of  her  closed  lids 
lay  darkly  on  her  cheek  ;  her  parted  lips,  gave  a  glimpse  of  her  teeth ;  a 
flush  like  an  opening  rose-bud  bloomed  upon  her  face.  Her  form,  pre- 
senting in  its  every  outline,  a  type  of  ripened  womanhood,  lay  motionless 
as  Death  beneath  his  gaze. 

Even  as  the  Fiend,  looked  in  upon  the  sleep  of  sinless  Eve,  parting  the 
leaves  which  shielded  her  form,  as  his  breath  polluted  her  cheek,  so  this 
wan  and  haggard  Outcast  drew  aside  the  curtains,  and  glowered  with 
ominous  eyes,  upon  the  slumber  of  poor  Madeline. 

"  Madeline  !"  he  whispered. 

She  stirred  in  her  sleep,  and  her  robe  falling  lower  on  her  shoulder,  dis- 


430  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

closed  the  livid  scar  which  marred  the  beauty  of  her  bosom.  The  sio-ht 
of  that  fatal  scar,  seemed  to  madden  the  Outcast. 

"  Madeline  !"  he  hissed  the  word  in  her  ear,  and  grasped  her  roughly 
by  the  wrist — "  Awake  !  Awake  I" 

She  started  up  in  the  bed,  and  unclosed  her  eyes. 

"God  pity  me!"  she  whispered,  shuddering  as  she  drew  her  white 
arms  over  her  breast.    "  This  is  some  frightful  dream  !" 

Between  her  and  the  light  rose  the  tall  form  of  the  Outcast ;  she  but 
dimly  discerned  his  face,  but  his  eyes,  flashing  with  unnatural  lustre,  pene- 
trated her  very  blood,  with  an  icy  shudder.  She  did  not  shriek,  nor  groan, 
but  folding  her  arms  over  her  breast,  gazed  upon  that  terrible  Apparition 
with  a  vacant  stare. 

"  Madeline — "  said  the  Outcast,  and  his  voice  was  broken  and  faint 
like  the  voice  of  an  aged  man,  "  I  have  a  message  for  you  from  Gilbert 
Morgan  !" 

"  Gilbert  Morgan?  Who  are  you  that  speak  to  me  of  Gilbert  Morgan?" 

She  looked  very  beautiful,  as  clad  in  her  loosened  robes,  as  white  as 
snow,  she  crouched  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  gazed  wonderingly 
into  the  Outcast's  face,  very  beautiful,  but  her  cheek  was  colorless,  her 
eyes  wildly  brilliant  with  terror,  while  her  bosom  rested  beneath  her  folded 
arms,  without  pulse  or  motion. 

"Come,  Madeline,  sit  by  me :  I  will  tell  you  of  Gilbert  Morgan,"  said 
the  old  man,  and  with  no  rude  grasp,  he  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  hei 
from  the  couch  toward  the  light. 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  never  once  removing  her  frightened  gaze  from 
his  face,  while  her  clasped  hands  gathered  her  robes  over  her  breast,  and 
her  brown  hair  falling  to  her  shoulders,  made  her  cheek  seem  pale  and 
death-like.  , 

He  sat  in  the  shadow  with  his  hand  raised  to  his  brow,  and  his  burning 
gaze  centred  upon  her  countenance. 

'•  Gilbert  Morgan  ?"  she  said,  as  she  endeavored  to  collect  her  wander- 
ing senses.  "  What  mean  you  ?  Ah  !  Old  man,  your  gaze  fills  me  with 
terror  !    Do  not  harm  me,  do  not  for  the  sake  of  Heaven  !" 

"  Harm  thee  ?"  returned  the  Outcast,  in  a  faint  and  broken  voice — "The 
old  man  is  weak;  he  could  not  harm  thee  if  he  would.  Thy  hand,  young 
girl,  can  crush  him  into  dust,  even  a  hand  so  small  and  delicate  as  thine. 
Listen  Madeline  !  The  good  woman,  who  lives  in  the  cabin  next  door, 
gave  me  entrance  to  this  house,  and  I  made  bold  to  enter  your  chamber : 
for  I  have  a  message  —  a  message  of  life  and  death,  from  Gilbert 
Morgan  !" 

Faint  and  fainter  his  voice  became  ;  the  last  words  were  pronounced  in 
a  whisper.  At  once,  Madeline's  terror  and  her  paleness  passed  away. 
Her  cheek  flushed,  her  bosom  heaving,  her  eye  radiant  with  delight,  she 
started  from  her  chair,  and  laid  her  hands  upon  his  arm. — 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  431 

"  Then  Gilbert  is  not  dead,"  she  cried — «  He  lives  !  Tell  me,— he 
lives?" 

The  Outcast  did  not  reply.  So  radiant  and  yet  so  pure,  in  her  womanly- 
beauty,  she  trembled  there,  her  hands  laid  upon  his  arms,  while  her  eyes 
lighted  up  with  all  a  woman's  soul,  that  the  old  man,  touched  to  his  very 
heart-strings  by  the  sight,  turned  his  face  away,  and  with  his  toil-worn 
hand  brushed  away  a  tear. 

"  He  lives.  That  is,  Gilbert  lives.  He  sent  me  to  you.  And  he  sent 
this  token,  so  that  you  might  know  me  for  his  messenger." 

From  his  rags  he  drew  forth  the  token,  a  hunting  knife  with  a  handle 
of  bone,  and  a  long  blade,  darkened  at  the  point  by  a  blood-red  stain. 

"This  a  token  from  Gilbert  to  me?"  Madeline's  face  became  pale 
again  ;  she  started  back,  and  regarded  the  old  man  with  a  dilating  eye. 
He  held  the  knife  toward  her,  but  her  hand  shrunk  back,  and  the  fatal 
weapon  fell  at  her  feet  on  the  rich  carpet,  with  a  sullen  sound. 

His  voice  was  broken,  husky,  as  he  replied : 

"Yes,  a  token  from  a  Murderer  to  his  victim.  He  stabbed  you  with 
that  knife,  young  girl.  You  know  it !  Stabbed  as  you  called  him  by 
name,  and  reached  out  your  arms  to  clasp  his  neck."  He  paused — hesi- 
tated— and  continued — "  That's  the  only  token  from  a  poor  devil  like 
Gilbert,  to  a  lady  so  rich  and  beautiful  a's  you,  my  girl  IV 

"  And  Gilbert  lives  !"  murmured  Madeline,  with  an  absent  glance.  "  Is 
this  no  dream  ?    They  told  me  that  he  was  dead — " 

"  Dead  :  worse  than  dead,"  answered  the  Outcast — "A  man  that's  dead 
sleeps  in  his  grave,  and  nothin'  troubles  him.  Winter  and  storm,  sum- 
mer and  sunshine,  pass  on,  but  still  he's  there — safe  under  ground — at 
rest.  But  as  for  Gilbert,  he's  not  dead,  but  only  buried  alive.  That's  all." 

"  Buried  alive  ?"  echoed  Madeline. 

"Yes,  he's  dead,  forever  dead  to  peace, — to  quietness — to  what  the 
good  folks  mean  when  they  use  these  words,  '  a  heart  at  rest  with  God 
and  man.''  He  only  lives  to  do  the  devil's  work ;  he's  only  awake  to 
crime.  And  then  it's  his  curse  to  go  about  the  earth,  like  a  ghost,  bound 
by  a  frightful  oath,  never  to  permit  any  one  to  know  him  as  Gilbert 
Morgan.  Do  you  understand,  girl  ?  He  may  see  the  graves  of  his  father 
and  mother,  hidden  in  the  corner  o'  th'  graveyard,  without  a  stone  to  mark 
their  resting  place,  and  he  dare  not  shed  a  tear  over  their  ashes,  dare  not 
plant  a  flower  there,  lest  somebody  might  know  him  for  Gilbert  Morgan. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  one  condemned  to  walk  about  the  earth,  among  his 
friends, — the  scenes  of  his  boyhood — invisible  to  every  one,  and  at  the 
same  time  seein'  and  hearin'  everythin',  without  the  power  to  speak? 
Gilbert  Morgan's  that  man  !" 

,  "  And  who,"  faltered  Madeline,  and  she  felt  a  strange  sympathy  mingled 
with  abhorence  or  fear,  while  she  gazed  upon  the  old  man — »  And  who 
has  laid  this  doom  upon  him  ?" 


432  PAUL  ARDENHEIM ;  OR, 

"  Hush  !  Do  not  speak  so  loud.  He  may  hear  you,"  whispered  the 
Outcast,  with  a  low,  mocking  laugh,  and  yet  with  an  accent  of  undisguised 
terror. 

"  He  ?  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ?"  asked  Madeline,  her  blood  chilled  by 
the  unnatural  laugh,  and  shuddering  tone  of  the  old  man. 

He  bent  forward,  while  the  light  fell  upon  his  white  hair— eyebrows 
and  beard  —  and  showed  the  contrast  between  these  and  his  sunburnt  fea- 
tures and  brilliant  eyes.   He  glanced  from  side  to  side  with  a  stealthy  look. 

"  Don't  you  know  who  I  mean  ?"  he  whispered — "  That  Devil  in  human 
shape,  or  rather  that  Fiend's  soul  in  only  a  half-human  body,  who  puts 
his  witchcraft  upon  you,  an'  takes  away  your  power  over  your  own  will, 
and  fills  your  brain  with  his  own  Soul.  Cant  you  guess  his  name  ?  He 
may  be  far  away  from  you, — and  you  may  know  it — and  yet  there  are 
moments  when  you  feel  that  his  soul  is  present  with  you,  like  a  cloud 

from   ,  or  when  his  Will  stirs  in  your  brain,  and  makes  your  hand 

perform  deeds  that  your  heart  abhors.  Don't  you  know  yet  ?"  he  hissed 
the  words  between  his  set  teeth,  as  the  affrighted  girl  shrunk  from  his 
fiery  gaze  — "  He's  sometimes  called  Black  David,  and  sometimes  Mr. 

Rolof  Sener,  and  again  but  no !  no  !    I  dare  not  speak  that 

name  !" 

Madeline's  face  resembled  the  visage  of  a  dead  woman,  while  her  eye 
burned  like  a  flame.    A  shriek  died  half  uttered  on  her  lips. 

"  Rolof  Sener  !"  she  whispered — "  My  Protector — my  father  !" 

"  Yes — yes — Black  David,  your  Protector  !  Rolof  Sener,  your  father ! 
Why,  girl,  I  could  tell  you  a  story  o'  that  Fiend,  that  would  drive  you 
stark,  starin'  mad.  Do  you  ever  pray,  girl — "  his  voice  grew  husky, 
choaking — "  Do  you  ever  kneel  at  night,  and  ask  God  with  a  free  heart  to 
bless  you  ?  Then  I  beg  of  you,  sometimes  pray  for  Gilbert  Morgan,  who 
is  sold  body  and  soul  to  the  Fiend  in  human  shape,  Rolof  Sener  !" 

"Do  I  ever  pray  ?"  said  Madeline,  a  burning  flush  visible  in  her  death- 
like cheek — "  Why  he  has  often  besought  my  prayers.  He,  Rolof  Sener, 
has  many  a  time  sat  in  this  very  room,  listening  while  I  have  read  from 
the  Bible — read  those  words  which  make  the  dying  heart  feel  strong  again, 
and  nerve  the  weary  soul  with  life  from  God." 

"And  yet — "  the  low,  mocking  laughter  of  the  Outcast  broke  on  the 
stillness  of  the  chamber,  with  a  hollow  emphasis—"  And  yet  you  remem- 
ber '^ie  Twelfth  of  November,'  do  you?  The  dyin'  mother  stabbed, 
while  her  baby  slept  upon  her  breast?  And  Rolof  Sener  sittin'  near  you, 
holdin'  your  hands  as  your  Soul — by  his  will,  mark  ye — saw  this  crime, 
committed  by  him,  three  hundred  years  ago  ?" 

Madeline  was  silent ;  the  solitary  flush  which  had  warmed  her  cheek 
died  away ;  she  fixed  her  large  eyes,  flashing  with  wild  lustre,  upon  the 
half-shadowed  face  of  the  Outcast,  and  clasped  her  hands,  her  lips  moving, 
trembling— but  without  a  sound. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON".  433 

"  Is  this  man  or  devil  '/"  cried  the  Outcast — "  This  Protector,  who  puts 
his  spell  upon  a  pure  girl,  and  while  her  body  is  like  a  corpse,  sends  her 
soul  whirling  away  into  long-forgotten  times,  and  shows  her  what  hellish 
things  he  did  three  hundred  years  ago  !" 

"A  fear  has  crept  upon  me — I  cannot  deny  it — many  a  time,  while 
gazing  on  his  face,  a  fear  and  a  shudder  worse  than  death.  And  yet,  to 
me,  he  has  never  spoken  an  unkind  word — his  eye  never  rests  upon  me, 
save  with  a  look  of  love, — love  such  as  a  father  might  feel  for  a  dear  child. 
When  all  the  world  forsook  me,  when  the  wound  was  bleeding  on  my 
breast,  and  the  unconscious  body  of  the  Orphan  Girl  was  given  to  the 
mercy  of  a  cold  winter  night,  then  he  was  my  friend,  my  only  friend. 
And  yet — and  yet — " 

Madeline  buried  her  forehead  in  her  hands,  as  though  some  Thought  too 
terrible  for  utterance,  had  suddenly  gloomed  upon  her  soul.  Her  hair 
glossy  and  brown,  flowing  in  copious  waves  to  her  shoulders,  her  white 
robes  floating  loosely  around  her  womanly  shape,  she  seemed — contrasted 
with  the  Outcast,  so  haggard  and  way-worn — like  a  pure  spirit,  summoned 
into  life  by  a  wizard's  spell,  and  convulsed  with  grief  as  the  realities  of 
the  world  were  made  known  to  her  once  more,  after  she  had  enjoyed  the 
untroubled  calm  of  the  grave. — The  wizard,  the  enchanter  sat  near  her, 
glowering  fixedly  upon  her  face,  with  flashing  but  tearful  eyes. — 

"  That's  right,"  he  whispered — "  You  cannot  speak  too  badly  of  Gil- 
bert Morgan.  The  knife  with  which  he  stabbed  you,  lies  at  your  feet, 
and  doubtless  the  memory  of  his  crime  rankles  in  your  heart."  He  rose 
and  stood  before  her,  tall  and  haggard,  with  the  light  upon  his  face,  while 
j  his  form  was  wrapped  in  shadow.  "  Good-bye,  girl,  I'm  goin'.  And  I'll 
tell  Gilbert  that  you  speak  of  him  with  loathing,  and  at  the  same  time  keep 
all  your  love  for  the  fiend  in  human  shape,  or  perhaps  for  Reginald. — 
Wasn't  that  his  name  ?" 

The  young  woman  started  to  her  feet,  and  stood  before  him,  pale  but 
beautiful,  all  that  was  pure,  all  that  was  impassioned  in  her  soul,  rushing 
to  her  eyes. 

"Tell  him,  tell  Gilbert,"  she  cried,  weighing  every  word,  and  looking 
him  full  in  the  face,  "  That  the  name  of  Reginald  is  to  me,  but  as  a  sound 
uttered  in  the  delirium  of  a  fever.  Even  now,  as  I  speak  it,  my  heart 
leaps  in  my  bosom,  and  yet  that  name  brings  home  to  me,  no  memory 
save  that  which  speaks  of  a  proud  Lord,  plotting  the  dishonor  of  a  poor 
Orphan  child.    But  the  name  of  Gilbert  " 

"Gilbert,  yes,  his  name—"  interrupted  the  Outcast. 

"  The  name  of  Gilbert  speaks  to  me  of  Wissahikon — "  her  voice  fell, 
the  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks — "  Of  Home  !" 

She  sank  in  the  chair,  and  her  tresses  floated  over  the  hands  which 
(were  pressed  against  her  brow  ;  the  old  man  started  wildly  forward, 

28 


434 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


reached  forth  his  arms,  but  as  suddenly  sank  back  again  into  his  former 
position — cold,  erect, -and  to  all  appearance,  immovable. 

"  Can  I  say  more  ?"  she  raised  her  face,  brilliant  with  tears,  toward  the 
light — "  Have  I  not  bared  my  heart  to  you  ?  To  you,  whom  I  have 
never  seen  before,  whom  I  do  not  know, — unless  indeed — " 

She  gazed  upon  him  long  and  anxiously,  while  he  awaited  the  result 
of  her  scrutiny  in  evident  suspense. 

"  Unless — well,  well,  my  girl  —  " 

"  Unless  indeed,  you  are  my  Protoctor, — my  Father — in  this  disguise  ! 
0,  say,  have  you  not  done  this  to  test  my  affection  for  you  ?  But  it  is 
not  kind, — it  is  not  manly — to  steal  thus  upon  me  at  dead  of  night,  and 
force  me  to  lay  bare  the  secrets  of  my  heart,  by  telling  me  that  Gilbert 
lives.     Gilbert,  alas!  who  has  long  since  crumbled  into  dust!" 

He  shrunk  away  from  her  extended  arms,  and  turned  his  face  aside  from 
the  light. 

At  this  moment,  as  she  stood  with  outstretched  arms, — her  face  reflected 
in  the  mirror,  warming  slowly  into  bloom  once  more  —  while  he  started 
back  and  concealed  his  face  from  the  light,  an  incident  took  place,  wit- 
nessed by  neither,  and  yet — it  may  be — fraught  with  the  most  important 
results. 

A  hand  appeared  among  the  hangings,  which  separated  this  chamber 
from  the  next ;  a  letter  was  thrown  into  the  room  ;  it  alighted  at  the  very 
feet  of  Madeline,  and  yet  she  did  not  see  it.  The  hand  then  disappeared, 
and  in  its  place  a  red  round  face  peered  in  through  the  hangings, — looked 
hurriedly  round  with  large  vacant  eyes — and  then  vanished  without  a 
sound. 

Was  it  the  face  of  Jacopo  the  Philosopher  ? 

"  Come,  Father,  confess  it  !  This  is  a  merry  jest  of  yours  to  test  my 
affection  for  you,  and  at  the  same  time  learn  the  secrets  of  my  heart,  in 
regard  to  Reginald  and  Gilbert.  You  know  father,  that  Reginald  was 
only  a  passing  cloud,  while  Gilbert's  memory  has  ever  been  to  me  dear 
as  the  summer  sky,  which  smiles  above  my  Wissahikon  home.  Could 
the  grave  give  up  its  dead,  could  Gilbert  come  back  this  hour,  you  know 
— you  must  know — how  willingly  I  would  share  his  fate,  and  endeavor  to 
atone  for  the  past,  by  loving  his  own  faithful  wife  among  the  woods  of 
Wissahikon  !" 

There  was  music  in  her  voice — blushes  like  daybreak  upon  her  cheek 
—  light  pure  as  the  midnight  stars  in  her  large  full  eyes. 

"  But  I  am  not  Rolof  Sener,"  said  the  Outcast,  in  a  voice  thick  and 
broken  as  his  chest  heaved,  and  he  turned  his  face  aside — "I  am  not  the 

miserable  Deformed — no,  by  !    I  am  taller  than  he, — your  own  eyes 

might  convince  you  of  that !" 

"Yes,  yes,  but  is  this  hair,  this  beard  so  venerable  your  own?"  and  she 
burst  into  a  merry  laugh.    "  Come — come — father,  confess  it !    The  man 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  435 

who  can  so  well  disguise  his  face,  can  certainly  add  a  few  inches  to  his 
stature.  Ah,  ha  !  Have  I  found  you  out  ?  But  it  was  not  kind  ;  indeed, 
indeed  it  was  a  cruel  jest.  Now  you  will  fulfil  your  promise — I  shall  go 
to  Wissahikon,  shall  I  not?" 

Laughing,  blushing,  her  bosom  once  more  beating  into  full  life,  she 
sprang  toward  him  with  outstretched  arms, — like  a  beloved  daughter  who 
has  foiled  her  father  in  some  merry  surprise — she  clasped  him  by  the 
neck,  and  her  hair  flowed  over  his  shoulders. 

He  unwound  her  arms, — thrust  her  gently  aside — and  hurried  with  un- 
steady steps  from  her  chamber. 

She  stood  there  like  a  statue  of  surprise,  gazing — not  after  him — but 
upon  the  spot  where  he  had  been,  with  a  mingled  look  of  mirth  and 
wonder,  her  lips  smiling  while  her  eyes  gathered  new  light  as  they  shone 
with  tears. 

And  all  the  while  the  letter  which  had  been  thrown  into  the  room  by 
an  unknown  hand,  lay  unperceived  at  her  feet. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THIRD. 

"GILBERT  MORGAN!" 

Meanwhile  the  Outcast  threading  the  dark  passages  with  hurried  steps, 
soon  reached  the  corridor.  Through  its  gloom  he  hastened,  and  descend- 
ing the  stairway  presently  stood  in  the  darkness  of  the  lower  chamber, 
his  hands  extended  as  he  searched  anxiously  for  the  door,  which  com- 
municated with  Betsy's  cabin.  The  door  was  found;  the  bolt  drawn; 
and  there  burst  into  the  presence  of  the  astonished  widow,  an  Apparition 
that  might  have  frightened  many  a  bolder  heart  than  hers. 

She  was  on  her  knees  in  the  closet,  praying  in  strong  German  and  with 
copious  tears  for  the  safety  of  the  poor  Girl,  who,  like  a  Nun  in  her  Cloister, 
was  enshrined  in  the  darkness  of  the  Haunted  House.  She  had  procured 
another  candle;  it  stood  upon  her  table,  and  flung  a  strong  light  over  the 
luxuriant  form,  which — kneeling — bloomed  securely  within  the  capacious 
closet.  The  bust  of  the  widow  rose  and  fell  like  a  big  wave ;  her  warm 
lips  gave  utterance  to  a  melancholy  litany  of  sobs,  moans  and  prayers. 

"  Te  oldt  fyste  !"  she  cried  with  a  decided  accent — "  To  go  into  tat 
house  witout  leave  or  license  !  And  fot  is  to  becom  of  me  ?  Fot,  I  say  ? 
[She  did  not  say  what  on  this  occasion,  but  with  emphasis,  Fot !]  Te 
tenl  as  pays  me  for  takin'  care  of  te  girl,  will  carry  me  off  in  a  puff  o* 


43G 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


smoke,  an'  brimstone — he  will — I  knows  he  will.    I  nefer  liked  his  eyes 
-nefer,  nefer  !" 

At  this  moment  the  bolt  was  drawn,  and  the  Apparition  of  the  old  out- 
cast, with  tall  form  and  haggard  face,  long  hair  and  beard  as  white  as 
snow,  gloomed  upon  the  widow's  eyes.  He  did  not  seem  to  wait  for 
ceremony  for  leaping  over  the  widow's  shoulder,  even  as  she  knelt 
in  her  sorrow,  he  plunged  through  the  closet  into  her  room,  and  began  to 
caper  over  the  floor,  his  white  hair  waving  like  a  banner,  as  he  whirled 
round  and  round. 

"  Lordt !"  cried  Betsy—"  Fot  next !" 

The  old  man  uttered  bursts  of  wild  laughter  as  he  performed  this  lively 
exercise,  exclaiming  between  every  burst — "  Don't  mind  me  Betsy.  I'm 
only  crazy,  that's  all.  Have  n't  got  as  much  sense  as  would  make  a  de- 
cent Idiot  of  myself.  You  see  I  had  to  run  from  the  girl,  or  I'd  a-gone 
stark  mad." 

Presently  he  brought  his  dance  abruptly  to  a  close ;  he  flung  himself 
into  a  chair,  and  the  widow  started  to  her  feet,  not  only  astonished  but 
completely  overwhelmed  in  all  her  modest  instincts. 

"  Uniressin'  hisself  in  my  room  !"  she  gasped — "  Tis  is  too  much  ! 
Fot  next!" 

It  was  no  dream,  but  a  painful  truth.  The  old  man  was  engaged  in 
divesting  himself  of  his  clothing  with  the  rapidity  of  a  tailor's  apprentice. 

He  did  not  take  off  his  miserable  shoes,  but  simply  tore  them  from  his 
feet.  Nor  did  he  cut  the  strings  which  bound  his  leggings,  but  rent  away, 
and  ripped  away,  until  strings  and  leggings  lay  on  the  floor  beside  the 
Worn-out  shoes.  Next,  his  girdle  fell ;  and  then  the  tattered  garment, 
which  reached  from  his  broad  shoulders  to  his  knees,  was  lifted  over  his 
head,  and  dashed  at  Betsy's  feet. 

"  O  !"  gasped  the  widow,  taking  one  interminable  breath  as  her  eyes 
dilated  in  her  blushing  face. 

Do  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  the  aged  gentleman  had  transformed 
himself  into  one  of  those  elegant  representations  of  Ancient  Statuary, — 
known  in  our  modern  days  as  Artistes, — qualified  with  the  big  word 
Model — and  renowned  at  once  for  scantiness  of  drapery  and  decency. 
Do  not  fancy  that  he  had  turned  himself  into  Apollo  bending  the  Bow  ; 
or  Ajax  defying  the  lightning ;  or  even  that  most  renowned  of  all  classic 
studies,  the  African  alarmed  at  the  sound  of  thunder. 

No  !  He  had  thrown  aside  his  shoes  and  leggings,  but  in  their  place 
appeared  a  pair  of  stalwart  limbs,  encased  in  boots  of  black  leather,  and 
hose  of  red  velvet ;  the  ragged  garment  he  had  flung  at  Betsy's  feet,  b\\t 
where  it  had  dangled  its  rags,  the  widow  now  beheld  a  coat  of  rich  velvet, 
green  embroidered  with  gold,  clothing  a  broad  and  muscular  chest,  and 
gathered  to  a  manly  waist,  by  a  glittering  girdle,  adorned  with  a  dagger 
with  golden  hilt,  and  a  pair  of  pistols  mounted  in  silver. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  437 

The  long  flowing  beard,  the  waving  hair  white  as  snow,  alone  prevented 
the  widow  from  deciding  that  this  sudden  transformation  had  converted  a 
miserable  outcast  into  as  handsome  a  cavalier,  as  ever  eyes  of  woman 
looked  upon. 

"Ah  !"  ejaculated  the  widow,  drawing  another  breath  in  a  paroxysm  of 
delight  and  wonder — "  Tat  is  nice  !" 

The  outcast  started  to  his  feet,  displaying  a  magnificent  form,  almost 
of  giant  stature,  clad  in  a  dress  which  showed  to  advantage  its  manly-  pro- 
portions, and  at  the  same  time  gave  it  something  of  a  military  air.  His 
hair  and  beard  so  white  and  long,  presented  a  singular  contrast  to  his 
youthful  form  and  elegant  attire. 

"  Betsy,  how  do  I  look  now  ?"  he  said,  lifting  at  once  his  old  felt  hat, 
his  hair  and  beard  from  his  head,  as  you  would  raise  your  hat  in  the 
course  of  a  polite  bow.    "Do  you  know  me,  girl  ?" 

There  was  no  sign  of  withered  age  upon  the  face,  which  now  caught 
the  rays  of  the  light.  A  hardy,  sunburnt  face,  with  a  thick  brown  beard 
about  the  firm  chin  and  muscular  throat;  a  face  boldly  featured,  lighted 
by  clear  blue  eyes,  and  with  short  and  copious  curls  of  chesnut  hair,  clus- 
tering around  a  frank  open  forehead,  which  was  darkened  only  by  one 
deep  wrinkle  and  a  single  scar. 

"Gottpless  us!"  cried  the  widow,  with  her  eyes  raining  tears — "Its 
the  teadt  come  back  to  life — it's  Gilbert  Morgan,  or  his  ghost !'" 

"  Yes,  Gilbert  Morgan  is  no  longer  afraid  of  his  own  name,  no  longer 
in  the  power  of  the  Fiend  !"  As  he  spoke  he  rose  to  his  full  stature,  and 
his  form  was  knit  in  every  muscle,  his  eyes — sunken  beneath  the  com- 
pressed brows — lighted  by  all  the  resolution  of  his  iron  will. 

"  From  this  hour  I  defy  him,  and  cast  off  his  chains.  If  he  comes  to 
me  in  human  shape,  why  a  pistol  or  a  knife  will  do  his  work  forever. 
But  if  he  is,  indeed,  a  devil  in  a  half-human  body,  why,  Madeline  shall 
pray  to  God  for  me.    Her  soul  is  pure — her  prayer  will  be  heard." 

"  What  you  mean,  Gilbert  ?"  faltered  Betsy. 

He  turned  to  her,  and  the  cloud  passed  from  his  face  ;  his  eyes  fairly 
danced  with  joy. 

"  Come,  Betsy,  we  will  go  to  Madeline  !  She  will  know  me  now,  and 
d'ye  hear,  Betsy  ?  There  '11  be  a  cottage  soon,  under  the  shadow  of  a 
big  rock,  by  the  Wissahikon  shore,  a  cottage  for  Gilbert  and  his  wife. 
And  you  shall  come  and  live  with  us,  Betsy — no  more  spasms,  ha,  ha  ! 
Forgive  me,  Betsy,  for  I've  led  a  wild  life,  but  now  it  is  over.  Come — 
softly— let  us  steal  gently  up  the  stairs,  and  ask  her  where  the  old  man 
has  gone  !" 

While  he  spoke,  his  eye  dancing,  his  chest  heaving  in  broad  and  deep 
respirations,  every  tone  of  his  voice  tremulous  with  an  intense— almost 
maniac — joy,  he  led  the  way  through  the  closet  into  the  lower  room  of 
the  Haunted  House.    Betsy  followed  him  with  hands  upraised,  and 


438  PAUL  ARDENHEI1Y1  ;  OR, 

eyes  dilating,  while  her  mouth  assumed  once  more  the  shape  of  a 
capital  O  ! 

"  D'ye  see  that  Harp  carved  on  the  middle  stone  of  the  fire  place  ? 
There's  money  under  that  stone,  Betsy,  money  buried  there  years  ago  by 
a  rich  merchant,  who  made  his  millions  in  the  slave  trade,  and  died  of  the 
fear  of  poverty.  Come — never  mind  it  now ;  we'll  see  Madeline  first, 
and  talk  of  the  money  afterwards." 

Up  the  stairs  and  through  the  corridor,  holding  the  light  above  his  head, 
while  Betsy  follows  at  his  heels,  rubbing  her  eyes  in  order  to  assure  her- 
self  that  it  is  no  dream.  They  reach  the  entrance  of  the  place  of  prayer 
where  the  white  altar  stands  alone  in  the  gloom,  and  the  Image  of  the 
Crucified  smiles  over  the  Holy  Book. 

"  Wait  here,  Betsy;  I  will  go  alone.  Take  the  light  and  wait;  in  a 
moment  I  will  call  you.  O  !  if  you  only  knew  how  my  heart  went  leap- 
in'  to  my  throat,  as  she  put  her  arms  about  my  neck,  and  yet,  I  was 
afraid  to  tell  her  my  name." 

With  these  words  he  left  the  good  widow  standing  at  the  end  of  the 
corridor,  and  passing  through  the  silent  Oratory,  soon  stood  on  the  thres- 
hold of  Madeline's  chamber. 

"  Madeline  !"  he  called — in  the  familiar  voice  of  the  olden  time — but 
there  was  no  answer.  His  hand  upon  the  curtains,  which  protected  the 
entrance  of  her  chamber,  his  form  veiled  in  their  shadows,  he  called  again  : 
"  Madeline  !    Madeline  !    It  is  I — Gilbert — come  back  to  life  again  !" 

He  listened,  while  the  blood  swept  like  molten  fire  in  every  vein  ;  he 
listened,  but  there  was  no  reply.- 

He  parted  the  curtains  and  entered  her  chamber,  reaching  forth  his  arms 
to  clasp  her  to  his  heart. 

The  light  still  glimmered  in  the  mirror,  shedding  a  dim  ray  over  the 
luxurious  furniture  and  white-curtained  bed,  but — Madeline  was  not 
there. 

Gilbert  paused  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  looking  from  side  to  side,  with 
a  vague  and  bewildered  stare. 

"  She  is  gone !"  he  cried,  with  an  accent  of  inexpressible  despair.  "  The 
Fiend  has  foiled  me  once  again!  But  no — she  is  concealed  somewhere  in 
this  accursed  mansion,  I  will  search  it  from  the  garret  to  the  cellar.  I 
will  " 

He  parted  the  curtains  of  the  bed ;  it  bore  the  impress  of  Madeline's 
form,  but  she  was  gone. 

"  I  will  defy  the  fiend,  and  walk  abroad  once  more  among  livin'  men 
like  a  livin'  man.    Ah !    What's  this  ?" 

A  white  object  glared  from  the  sombre  carpet  at  his  feet.  It  was  a 
letter,  the  seal  had  the  appearance  of  having  been  but  lately  broken;  it 
bore  no  superscription,  but  a  single  word  at  once  rivetted  Gilbert's 
attention. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


439 


" '  To  Madeline  !'  "  he  muttered  as  he  held  it  to  the  light,  and  then 
sinking  in  a  ehair,  he  read  the  following  lines  ; 

"  To  Madeline  ! 

"  Do  not  tremble,  fair  girl,  when  you  behold  the  name,  written  beneath 
these  lines !  It  is  I — it  is  Reginald, — who  sought  your  love,  under  a 
cowardly  disguise,  and  sought  to  lure  you  to  dishonor,  on  the  fatal  New 
Year's  morning  of  1775.  And  Reginald,  repenting  of  the  crime,  now 
seeks  to  make  atonement,  and  thus  deserves  your  forgiveness. 

Forgive  me  Madeline.  The  dream  of  passion,  has  passed  away.  I  no 
longer  look  upon  you  with  the  gaze  of  an  unholy  love.  You  are  to  me, 
as  something  set  apart  from  the  crimes  and  woes  of  this  mortal  life — you 
are,  to  me,  as  pure,  as  distant,  as  unapproachable,  as  the  evening  star, 
which  trembles  serenely  on  the  sunset  horizon — as  a  Saint  enthroned  in 
Heaven,  to  whom  we  may  present  our  prayers,  but  whose  sanctity  repels 
the  idea  of  earthly  passion. 

"I  seek  to  atone  for  the  past.  Will  you  listen,  Madeline, — can  you  for- 
give ?  Come  to  Wissahikon,  Madeline ;  my  servant  who  bears  this  note, 
will  lead  you  to  the  appointed  place,  where  your  hand  will  be  joined  with 
the  hand  of  your  plighted  Husband,  Gilbert  Morgan.  This  is  the  atone- 
ment which  I  would  make ;  Gilbert  is  my  friend  ;  and  believe  me  your, — 

Lover  no  longer — but  Brother, 
Reginald  Lyndulfe." 

Gilbert  read  this  letter,  examined  the  seal,  bearing  a  coat  of  arms,  with 
the  cipher,  "  R.  L."  and  then  exclaimed  in  a  tone,  whose  emphasis  of  de- 
spair, no  words,  can  depict : 

"And  she  has  been  cheated  by  this  lie — she  has  gone  to  meet  this  Re- 
ginald Lyndulfe.  The  thrice-perjured  knave  !  My  name  must  serve  as 
a  cloak  for  his  schemes, — in  my  name,  he  will  complete  Madeline's  dis- 
honor." 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  stood  for  a  moment  buried  in  thought,  his 
frank,  manly  face,  darkening  slowly,  with  the  impress  of  a  desperate 
resolve. 

His  servant' — hah!  I  thought  I  recognized  the  knave,  when  I  sat 
under  the  oak,  this  afternoon.  But  it  is  not  yet  too  late  to  foil  this  wretch. 
I  will  to  Wissahikon,  I  will  meet  him  there,  and  as  for  the  Fiend,  why  a 
true  heart  and  a  good  purpose  is  worth  the  malice  of  a  thousand  devils  at 
any  time !" 

As  he  spoke,  his  almost  giant  form,  presented  an  impressive  image  of 
muscular  power,  linked  with  a  rugged  but  manly  beauty,  His  sunburnt 
cheek,  flushed  with  new  life ;  his  eyes  shone  with  new  fire ;  a  defiant 
resolve,  hung  on  his  lip;  and  with  his  neck  thrown  proudly  back  upon 
his  broad  shoulders,  his  right  hand  laid  upon  the  dagger's  hilt,  his  wide 


440 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


chest  swelling  in  the  light— he  looked  in  every  respect,  the  brave  man, 
yes  the  Hero. 

"  Now  for  the  Wissahikon  !"  he  said  and  was  turning  away  from  the 
light,  when — His  eyes  grew  fixed  and  glassy.  His  limbs  rigid  and  mo- 
tionless.* He  stood  as  if  suddenly  transformed  to  stone,  his  features,  livid 
and  immoveable  as  Death. 

This  change  took  place  within  the  compass  of  a  second.  One  instant 
he  was  turning  away  with  a  flushed  cheek  and  defiant  lip ;  the  next,  he 
was  stone — his  limbs  stiffened — his  fixed  eyeballs,  glaring  in  the  mirror 
with  a  cold  glassy  lustre.  There  was  something  awful,  beyond  the  power 
of  words,  in  this  inexplicable  transformation. 

His  lips  moved  languidly,  but  every  muscle  of  his  face  was  stiff,  frozen — 
•« 1  hear  your  voice — "  he  slowly  uttered — "And  I  will  obey." 

Was  it  Gilbert  Morgan,  the  brave  man,  conscious  of  his  fearless  heart 
and  iron  arm,  who  spoke  ?  Or,  was  it  Gilbert  Morgan,  the  victim  of  a  re- 
morseless soul,  which  had  deprived  him  of  all  power  over  his  own  will, — 
destroyed  in  fact,  for  the  moment,  his  individuality — and  filled  his  brain 
with  the  Soul  of  Another? 

Like  a  man  walking  in  his  sleep,  Gilbert  strode  slowly  from  the  room, 
as  he  fixed  his  glassy  eyes  upon  the  darkness,  and  murmured  languidly, — 

"  Master,  I  come  !  I  come  ! 

Thus  he  reached  the  corridor,  where  Betsy  awaited,  light  in  hand.  She 
spoke  to  him — he  passed  her  without  a  word— his  eyes  fixed,  his  hands 
outstretched,  his  gait  measured  and  artificial. 

He  reached  the  stairway,  and  began  to  descend.  Betsy  filled  with 
wonder,  darted  forward  light  in  hand,  and  saw  his  face,  as  she  called  him 
by  name.    She  saw  his  face,  and  fell  fainting  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

It  was  not  a  living  man, — the  thought  flashed  on  her,  as  she  saw  his 
face — who  walked  thus  in  silence,  with  fixed  eyeballs,  and  stride  measured 
and  artificial.  It  was  a  Corpse,  placed  on  its  feet  by  some  infernal  wizard- 
craft,  and  sent  abroad,  to  chill  the  hearts  of  the  living,  with  its  sad  ter- 
rible gaze. 

Our  history  now  returns  to  the  farm-house  of  Peter  Dorfner,  and  to  the 
room  where  Madeline  on  the  last  night  of  1775,  sank  beneath  the  dagger 
of  Gilbert  Morgan. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


441 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THIRD. 

"ROLOF  SENER." 

.  The  sunbeam  stealing  through  the  small  panes  of  the  narrow  window, 
tinted  with  its  warm  glow,  the  dusky  stain,  which  dyed  the  floor,,  and 
shone  upon  the  massive  forehead  of  the  Unknown,  as  seated  beside  the 
table,  his  gaze  rested  upon  the  papers  and  manuscripts  which  were  scat- 
tered there. 

From  the  moment  when  Jacopo  left  the  room,  in  obedience  to  his  com- 
mands, he  had  remained  in  the  same  position,  his  head  drooped,  his  eye 
fixed  upon  those  manuscripts,  his  pale  and  delicate  hand  resting  upon  the 
table.  Sometimes  a  smile  wreathed  his  thin  lips — again  his  eyes,  sunk 
deeper  beneath  the  down-drawn  brow,  and  shone  with  a  sad,  gloomy  lus- 
tre— and  then  his  face  was  calm  and  cold  again,  immoveable  and  statue- 
like as  his  form. 

One  finger  rested  upon  a  golden  coin,  which  bore  an  ancient  date,  and 
an  inscription  in  bold  characters,  somewhat  worn  by  time.  Whenever 
his  eye  wandered  to  this  coin,  his  gaze  grew  glassy ;  his  lips  were  com- 
pressed; his  forehead  was  darkened  by  a  single  vein,  which  rising  from 
the  brows,  swelled  beneath  the  pale  skin,  in  distinct  and — almost  hideous 
— prominence. 

Then  his  face  was  imbued  by  an  expression,  which  gave  a  kindly 
smile  to  his  lips,  a  clear  and  tranquil  light  to  his  eyes.  It  was  a  look 
of  indescribable  calm,  indicating  a  heart  full  of  peace,  a  soul  at  rest  with 
God  and  man. 

He  bent  down  again  to  the  papers  which  covered  the  table,  examined 
them  one  by  one,  muttering  all  the  while  to  himself,  while  his  face  changed 
from  light  to  shadow,  from  that  look  of  indescribable  calm,  to  one  steeped 
in  dark  and  repulsive  emotion. 

Thus  an  hour  passed  away. 

When  the  hour  was  gone,  and  the  sunbeam  wandered  from  the  pale 
brow  of  the  Unknown,  to  the  papers  on  the  table,  there  was  a  footstep 
on  the  stairway  which  led  to  Madeline's  chamber.  It  was  the  footstep 
of  a  strong  man,  completely  unnerved  by  some  powerful  emotion ;  it 
echoed  through  the  passage  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  Reginald  Lyn- 
dulfe  stood  upon  the  threshold  of  that  fatal  room. 

Clad  as  you  doubtless  remember,  in  that  blue  hunting  shirt,  which  con- 
cealed his  scarlet  uniform,  with  knife  and  powder  horn  at  his  side,  and 
rifle  on  his  shoulder,  he  paused  upon  the  threshold,  while  his  chesnut 
hair,  floating  carelessly  from  beneath  his  cap,  could  not  relieve  the  death- 
like pallor  of  his  face. 


442 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR 


He  started  as. his  gaze  rested  upon  the  Unknown,  and  resting  one  arm 
against  the  door-post,  muttered  in  a  half-audible  tone — "A  stranger  here! 
What  can  this  mean  ?  The  negro  told  me  that  the  house  was  deserted, 
and  as  for  old  Peter  I  passed  him,  as  he  was  sleeping  in  the  arbor." 

The  Unknown  raised  his  eyes,  and  calmly  surveyed  the  manly  form, 
which — framed  in  the  doorway — stood  hesitating  on  the  threshold. 

"Ah  !  Is  it  you,  Reginald  !"  he  said  with  a  smile — «  Come  in  my  Lord. 
Take  a  seat  on — is  there  no  chair  ?  Well  then  take  a  seat  on  the  bed  ;  it 
is  covered  with  dust,  but  you  wont  mind  that." 

"You  know  my  name?"  ejaculated  Reginald,  with  a  look  of  immea- 
surable surprise,  and  then  relapsing  into  a  look  and  attitude  of  aristocratic 
hauteur,  he  exclaimed — "  You  have  the  advantage  of  me,  sir.  I  do  not 
know  you." 

"And  yet  I  stood  beside  your  father,  when  he  placed  this  Medal  about 
your  Mother's  neck,  the  day  before  she  embarked  for  England.  It  was 
in  the  island  of  Jamaica — at  your  father's  plantation — twenty-one  years 
ago." 

These  words  pronounced  in  that  calm,  even  voice,  with  an  expressive 
movement  of  the  small  white  hand,  had  the  effect  of  magic.  The  face  of 
Reginald  became  frightfully  pale,  he  staggered  into  the  room,  and  placed 
his  hands  upon  the  table,  while  his  eyes  were  rivetted  to  the  face  of  the 
unknown. 

"  You — stood — by — my — father — "  he  gasped,  speaking  with  a  choking 
sensation  in  his  throat — "You!" 

"Here  is  the  medal,"  said  the  unknown,  carelessly  extending  his  hand 
— "  You  can  examine  it  at  your  leisure,  I  saw  your  father  place  it  about 
your  mother's  neck  twenty-one  years  ago." 

But  Reginald  did  not  grasp  the  medal  ;  he  saw  the  cross  and  the  in- 
scription which  it  bore,  and  shrank  away  from  it,  as  though  its  touch  was 
Death. 

"Your  name — "  faltered  Reginald. 

"  Rolof  Sener,  my  child.  The  Swedish  traveller,  of  whom  you've 
doubtless  heard  your  father  speak  ?" 

"  Rolof  Sener  !"  echoed  Reginald,  and  he  sunk  back  on  the  bed — whose 
coverlet  yet  bore  the  print  of  Madeline's  form — pressing  his  hand  nervously 
to  his  forehead,  for  his  brain  was  throbbing  with  intense  torture  :  "  Rolof 
Sener  !  Yes  ;  my  father  has  spoken  of  you — oftentime.  But  you  do  not 
look  like  a  very  aged  man,  and  Rolof  Sener,  eighteen  years  ago,  was  at 
least  fifty  years  old." 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  for  the  first  time,  discovered  that  the  figure  of 
Rolof  Sener  was  characterized  by  a  deformity,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
subdued  by  a  careful  mode  of  dress.  His  shoul'ders  were  broad  and  high  ; 
his  spine  marked  by  an  unsightly  curvature  ;  indeed,  looking  at  him,  from 
the  side,  instead  of  face  to  face,  the  head  of  Rolof  seemed  to  rest  against 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON 


443 


rather  than  upon  his  shoulders.  You  would  not  perchance,  call  him  a 
hunchback,  and  yet  his  deformity — not  so  much  observable  at  a  front  view, 
and  with  his  head  bent  over  the  table,  in  the  act  of  writing — was  now 
painfully  apparent. 

"Yes,  I  was  with  your  father  on  that  occasion,  twenty-one  years  ago," 
said  Rolof  Sener,  turning  his  chair  so  that  he  sat  face  to  face  with  Regi- 
nald— -'And  with  him  at  his  Jamaica  plantation  on  another  occasion. 
Toward  the  close  of  the  year  1757,  when  your  father  received  the  first 
intelligence  of  that  two-fold  calamity,  which  converted  him, — Clarence 
Albert — the  younger,  nay  the  youngest  son,  into  a  Peer  of  the  Realm, 
yes,  Duke  of  Lyndulfe,  with  a  rent  roll  of  one  hundred  thousand  pounds, 
per  year.    I  remember  it  well !" 

k"  Tic  o -fold  calamity"  muttered  Reginald,  passing  his  hand  over  his 
forehead — "  I  have  heard  of  it ;  but  not  from  my  father's  lips.  An  aged 
peasant  at  Lyndulfe  told  me  not  more  than  a  year  since,  that  my  grand" 
father,  John,  Duke  of  Lyndulfe,  and  his  eldest  son,  Ranulph  John,  died 
about  the  same  time,  by  a  strange  accident." 

"A  very  strange  accident — "  and  the  face  of  Rolof  Sener  was  darkened 
by  that  solitary  vein — "Remarkably  strange!"  There  was  a  mocking 
smile  upon  his  lips. 

"  What  mean  you?  My  grand-father  was  thrown  from  his  horse,  and 
my  uncle — his  eldest  son — was  killed,  by  the  horse,  in  the  attempt  to 
save  his  father's  life." 

The  color  came  to  Reginald's  face  once  more  ;  his  deep  blue  eye  flashed 
with  anger. 

"And  the  old  Duke  was  found  dead,  beside  his  dead  steed,"  continued 
Rolof  in  an  absent  tone — "As  for  Ranulph  John,  his  body  was  found  in  a 
ditch,  so  hideously  mangled,  the  face  trodden  as  though  by  horse's  hoofs, 
that  his  best  friends,  could  only  know  him  by  some  fragment  of  his  dress. 
It  was  a  strange  accident,  and  by  that  accident  your  father,  the  youngest 
of  three  sons,  became  Duke  of  Lyndulfe." 

Again  that  cold  and  mocking  smile,  played  around  the  thin  lips  of  Rolof 
Sener. 

"  Three  sons  ?"  echoed  Reginald  with  a  start — "  There  were  but  two — 
my  father  and  his  Elder  Brother." 

"  Three,  my  child,  three.  A  son  younger  than  Ranulph  John,  but  older 
than  your  father,  who  had  been  born  on  the  German  possessions  of  your 
House,  and  enjoyed  those  possessions  in  his  mother's  right.  His  name 
was  Gaspard  Michael ;  he  bore  the  title  of  Count,  and  was  something  of 
a  German  as  much  by  feeling  and  education,  as  by  his  birth.  Three 
sons,  my" — 

Hold, — "  Reginald  once  more  pressed  his  hand  to  his  forehead — 
"  This  is  not  so.    At  least,"  he  hesitated — "  I  never  heard  of  it  before." 
"  You  are  young,  handsome,  fond  of  the  sex,  and  with  no  disinclination 


444  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

for  a  duel,*now  and  then  ;  the  very  type  of  a  gallant  cavalier,  and  therefore 
it  is  to  be  presumed,  that  you  have  heard  of  everything.  Is  it  not  my 
Lord  ?" 

The  mocking  scorn  which  had  lingered  about  Rolof's  lips,  now 
mounted  to  his  eyes.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world,  so  cutting  in  its 
calm  contempt,  as  the  sneer  of  an  old  man,  who  turns  all  the  fire  of  Youth, 
into  ice  with  his  glance,  and  withers  its  warmest  hope,  with  one  cold 
look. 

"  You  are  disposed  to  jest  with  me,"  said  Reginald,  while  the  blood 
rushed  to  his  face.  "  Still,  I  must  repeat,  that  I  never  heard  of  this  Gas- 
pard  Michael.    He  died  young  ?" 

"  He  disappeared,  soon  after  the  double-calamity,"  replied  Rolof  calmly 
•*  There  were  proofs  of  his  death,  or  else  your  father  would  not  have  sue 
ceeded  to  the  title  and  estates  of  Lyndulfe." 

"  Of  course  he  left  no  heir,"  said  Reginald  carelessly. 

"  Suppose  he  did  leave  an  heir,"  replied  Rolof  Sener,  in  that  peculiar 
tone  which  penetrated  the  listener's  heart,  "Or,  to  carry  out,  the  hypo- 
thesis ;  suppose  that  heir  is  in  existence  at  this  moment  ?    What  then  I" 

Reginald's  face  was  shadowed  by  a  cloud. 

"It  is  impossible,"  he  said — "You  are  dreaming." 

"  What  then  ?"  repeated  the  singular  personage,  with  a  latent  laughter 
in  his  eye. 

"  You  mock  me," — and  Reginald's  eye  shone  with  anger,  while  he 
could  not  turn  his  gaze  aside  from  the  pale  face  of  Rolof ;  "  In  the  first 
place,  Gaspard  Michael,  never  lived.  True,  I  have  your  word, — or  your 
jest — as  proofs  of  his  existence.  In  the  second  place,  even  if  his  exist- 
ence were  no  fable,  by  your  own  admission,  he  died  and  left  no  heir. 
There  is  no  need,  ha,  ha,  no  need  of  your  'what  then?'  my  good  sir." 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  Reginald  laugh  ;  his  teeth  were  so  white ;  his 
blue  eyes  so  full  of  Youth  and  Hope.    And  then  he  was  Twenty-Two ! 

Twenty-Two,  delicious  age,  when  some  fragrance  from  Paradise,  still 
clings  to  the  flowers  of  Earth;  when  every  pulse  beats  Pleasure  ;  and  the 
expanding  eye  looks  through  the  Future,  and  beholds  only  the  blossoms 
and  sunshine  of  that  glorious  landscape,  without  one  thought  of  the  Skele- 
ton whom  those  blossoms  conceal,  or  one  glance  for  the  Grave,  which  the 
sunshine  only  invents  with  rosy  light. 

"  Twenty-Two  !"  Even  I  who  write  these  words, — and  certainly  I 
am  very  far  from  being  an  old  man  yet ;  at  least  not  in  the  almanac  sense 
of  the  phrase — even  I  look  back  over  the  pathway  of  four  years,  and  won- 
der in  what  dim  grave,  I  buried  the  Boy  of  Twenty-Two. 

"  Twenty-Two  !"  It  is  the  time  of  Illusions  ;  sweep  them  away  as  you 
grow  older  ;  but  what  is  there  in  Life  to  repay  you  for  those  glorious  Illu- 
sions? It  is  the  day  of  Romance — it  is  soon  passed — you  awake  to  the 
naked  Realities  of  life  ;  those  grim  skeletons,  which  the  blossoms  of 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


445 


Twenty-Two  strewed  for  awhile,  with  bloom  and  fragrance. — Said  a  Phi- 
losopher once,  who  after  a  life  of  intense  brain-labor,  had  brought  himself 
into  communion  with  the  Other  World,  and  forced  its  Spirits  to  grant  his 
desires,  '  let  me  be  Twenty-Two  forever,  with  its  Illusions,  its  Dreams,  its 
Loves,  and  its  Hates,  and  I  ask  no  more.' 

It  was  pleasant,  I  say,  to  see  Reginald  laugh,  for  he  was  Twenty- 
Two. 

"  What  then  ?"  echoed  the  singular  personage,  known  by  the  name  of 
Rolof  Sener — "  Why  Reginald,  the  Duke  of  Lyndulfe — that  is  to  be  — 
will  become  that  most  pitiful  of  all  paupers ;  the  heir  to  the  noble  blood,  and 
gilded  poverty  of  a  Younger  Son.  A  kind  of  genteel  beggar,  who  is  tolerated 
by  the  great  on  account  of  his  lineage  ;  a  sort  of  4  poor  relation'  a  gentle- 
man Lazarus,  in  fact,  who  haunts  the  Royal  Court,  until  his  sores  are 
dressed  with  a  pension,  and  his  rags  made  decent,  with  a  little  golden  tinsel. 
Is't  not  laughable?  Reginald  Duke  of  Lyndulfe,  Baron  of  Marionhurst, 
of  Dernberg,  of  Camelford,  with  a  string  of  other  titles  that  I  do  not  now 
remember,  and  a  rent-roll  of  one  hundred  thousand  a  year,  suddenly  trans- 
formed into  plain  Captain  Reginald,  a  gentleman  of  elegant  figure,  and — 
five  hundred  a  year  ! 

4-  This  is  insulting,"  cried  Reginald,  glowing  with  indignation — "  Your 
age  alone  protects  you  !" 

"  And  if  I  were  younger,  you  would  dissect  my  lungs  with  a  sma 
sword,  or  search  for  my  brains  with  a  pistol  bullet,  and  thus  vindicate 
your  honor  !    Bah  !  I  am  ashamed  of  you.    Read  that  !"  -v 

He  took  a  letter  from  the  table,  and  handed  it  to  Reginald. 

"  What  is  this,  I  see  !  From  my  father,  and  dated  yesterday  ;  written, 
too,  from  our  Camp  in  Jersey  !  It  is  indeed  his  own  handwriting;  with- 
out a  doubt  his  signature.    What  does  it  mean  ?" 

«  Read  !"  said  Rolof. 

Reginald  read  the  letter  aloud  : 

"'Rolof:— 

«  4  The  plan  is  good  ;  the  project  itself  confers  immortal  honor  on  its 
originator.  The  Army  of  His  Majesty  is  now  in  Jersey,  as  you  are  aware, 
advancing  toward  the  Delaware;  the  object  of  the  General  being  the  pos- 
session of  Philadelphia.  But  the  project  will  pay  us  for  a  thousand  Phil- 
adelphias  ;  will  end  the  war,  in  fact,  and  bring  the  revolted  colonies  to  the 
foot  of  the  throne.  I  will  be  in  **********  at  the  appointed  time,  and 
at  the  place  you  designate.  Let  your  messenger  meet  me  there,  with  a 
line  from  you,  in  your  own  hand,  which  I  will  take  as  a  token  to  go  for- 
ward. You  will  have  time  to  perfect  your  understanding  with  our  friends 
in  Philadelphia ;  we  can  seize  him  away  from  his  camp  ;  conceal  him  for 
a  few  days  in  Philadelphia,  and — the  war  is  at  an  end — '  " 


446  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR 

"  What  mean  these  stars  ?"  asked  Reginald,  his  face  the  very  embodi- 
ment of  surprise. 

"  There  are  ten,"  answered  Rolof,  "  and  there  are  just  ten  letters  in  the 
word  Germantoivn.'" 

"  And  my  father  is  coming-  but  who  is  this  person  designated 

as  '•himV  " 

"  Washington,  the  rebel  leader.  He  will  be  here, — at  Wissahikon — to- 
night. Some  days  since,  he  received  a  letter  from  Philadelphia,  signed 
by  Jefferson,  and  other  prominent  members  of  the  rebel  Congress.  That 
letter  designated  the  Wissahikon  as  the  scene  for  an  important  interview, 
between  Washington  and  these  rebel  statesmen;  to  take  place  on  the  last 
night  of  the  second  week  in  June." 

"  To-night  !" 

"  Yes,  to-night  he  will  be  here,  and  the  rebel  leaders  from  Philadelphia 
will  offer  him  the  crown." 

"  And  my  father  ?"  cried  Reginald,  trembling  with  agitation. 

"  He  will  be  here  to-night.  With  a  band  of  trusty  Philadelphians,  rich 
men,  my  child,  friends  of  the  King,  he  will  surround  the  house  in  which 
the  Rebel  General  and  the  Rebel  Statesmen  are  in  conclave,  and  take 
prisoner,  the  heart  and  arm  of  America,  George  Washington." 

"  it  is  a  magnificent  idea  !"  cried  Reginald,  in  a  broken  voice,  but  with 
flashing  eyes — "  And  my  father,  the  Duke,  will  have  the  honor  of  this 
capture.    But  what  has  this  to  do  with  Gaspard  Michael  ?" 

"  You  have  not  yet  finished  the  letter.    Read  on — "  said  Rolof  Sener. 

"  'The  papers  which  you  have  furnished  me,  in  regard  to  the  existence 
of  the  Son  of  Gaspard  Michael,  are  indeed  appalling.  Search  further 
Rolof;  assure  yourself  that  this  person,  of  whom  you  speak,  is  indeed  the 
Son  of  Gaspard  Michael.  The  house  of  Lyndulfe  must  not  be  shaken  by 
the  hand  of  a  Pretender  to  its  wealth  and  honors.  You  inform  me  that 
he  ivas  living  six  months  ago  ;  I  beseech  you,  my  good  friend,  to  spare 
no  exertions  in  this  matter.  Does  he  live  now  ?  What  is  his  condition 
— where  his  place  of  abode  ?  I  assure  you,  that  my  first  reason  for  em- 
barking in  your  project,  was  a  wish  to  rivet  myself  in  the  favor  of  the 
King,  and  thus  secure  his  interest  against  the  claims  of  this — or  any  other 
— Pretender. 

Lyndulfe.'  " 

Reginald  crushed  the  letter  in  his  fingers,  exclaiming  with  an  oath — 
"  This  is  indeed  a  terrible  revelation  !"  Then  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands,  and  sat  gazing  on  the  floor,  with  a  blank  and  colorless  visage. 

Rolof  Sener  regarded  him  with  a  searching  look,  but  with  a  smile. 

"This  Gaspard  Michael — this  Son — where  is  he?"  shouted  Reginald, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON 


447 


as  convulsed  in  every  nerve,  he  started  to  his  feet.  **  Speak,  or  by  the 
*  *  *  above  us,  I'll  throttle  you  !" 

"  He  lives  on  the  Wissahikon,"  said  Rolof  Sener,  in  a  calm  tone,  his 
face  serene  and  smiling.  "  Within  a  mile  from  where  you  stand,  and — 
you  wont  throttle  me." 

"  On  the  Wissahikon  !"  and  Reginald  sank  back  upon  the  bed.  It  was 
indeed  a  crushing  blow ;  the  mere  Chance  of  this  Pretender's  existence 
was  terrible,  but  the  Certainty  was  madness.  Reginald  seated  on  the  bed 
—  printed  with  the  outlines  of  Madeline's  form — felt  the  Dukedom  gliding 
from  under  his  feet,  even  as  a  hunter,  gazing  over  the  brow  of  a  precipice, 
feels  the  solid  rock  quiver  and  tremble  ere  it  falls. 

"This  room  is  accursed — the  very  air  breathes  ruin  to  me  and  to  my 
race!"  he  muttered,  in  a  wild  tone,  and  gazed  with  sidelong  glance  at  the 
dusky  stain  near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  where  the  sunbeam  gayly  shone. 

"  What  mean  you  ?"  asked  Rolof,  with  a  look  and  accent  of  wonder. 

"You  know,  you  must  know  it, — "  cried  Reginald,  starting  up  and 
pacing  the  floor — "For  you  seem  to  know  everything  that  is  evil.  Here, 
here,  twenty-one  years  ago,  on  a  dark  and  stormy  night,  my  Mother  was 
murdered — murdered,  even  as  she  struggled  in  the  anguish  of  a  mother's 
pains.    They  tore  her  babe  from  her  still  quivering  form — " 

His  look  ghastly,  his  accent  ringing  with  an  emphasis  of  unutterable 
.horror,  he  confronted  Rolof  Sener,  with  clenched  hands  and  swelling 
chest. 

"  How  know  you  this  ?"  said  the  elderly  man,  very  calmly — "  Is  that 
stain  near  your  feet,  your  mother's  blood?" 

Reginald  started  back,  with  a  shudder  in  every  nerve. 

"Or  does  that  dingy  blood-mark  bring  to  mind,  the  anguish  of  a  poor 
and  friendless  Orphan  Girl,  who,  struggling  in  her  seducer's  arms — in  this 
room,  two  years  and  six  months  ago — besought  his  mercy,  in  the  name 
of  her  murdered  mother,  and  besought  in  vain  !" 

These  words  fell  upon  Reginald  like  so  many  mortal  thrusts  from  the 
blade  of  a  keen  and  polished  dagger. 

"Hold!"  he  cried, — "Another  word,  and  I  will  "  he  laid  his 

trembling  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  his  hunting-knife,  as  his  face  grew  purple 
with  settled  rage. 


448 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIFTH. 

"  MY  SISTER  V- 

"Her  prayers,  her  tears,  even  the  memory  of  her  murdered  mother — 
all  were  in  vain  !  Nothing  could  deter  you,  from  that  cowardly  outrage. 
You  had  palsied  her  mind,  fevered  her  blood  with  a  poisonous  drug.  And 
to  this  bed,  Sir — or  rather — my  Lord — where  poor  and  .friendless,  but 
innocent,  she  was  sleeping — to  this  bed,  with  your  hellish  purpose  gleam- 
ing in  your  blood-shot  eye,  you  crept,  at  the  dead  of  night,  and  ha,  ha  ! 

Fell  back,  frightened  and  cold,  when  you  saw  this  Medal  glimmering  on 
her  bosom/' 

"I  knew  it  not,"  said  Reginald,  in  a  choking  voice, — "I  knew  not  that 
she  was  my   Fiend  !    You  will  drive  me  mad  !" 

"  You  knew  it  not,"  whispered  Rolof,  bending  forward,  while  a  wither- 
ing sneer  crept  over  his  pale  face.  "That  cannot  excuse  your  purpose, 
nor  in  the  slightest  degree  palliate  your  crime.  For  the  woman,  who  ik 
at  once  poor,  friendless,  and  innocent,  is  the  Sister  of  every  Man,  who  has 
one  throb  of  honor  in  his  breast.  His  Sister,  not  indeed  by  ties  of  blood, 
but  by  a  loftier  and  more  touching  relationship  ;  by  that  Poverty,  which, 
while  it  makes  her  Virtue  shine  only  the  brighter,  as  the  diamond  gleams 
more  beautiful  when  in  the  dust,  invokes  protection  from  honest  Manhood, 
in  a  voice  that  a  devil  alone  could  disobey."  ' 

His  large  eyes  dilated  and  gleamed  with  a  calm  deep  light,  while  his 
voice,  rising  as  he  went  on,  rang  upon  the  ears  of  the  guilty  man,  like  the 
tones  of  an  accusing  angel. 

Do  not  shelter  yourself  behind  that  petty  plea,  my  Lord  !  The  man 
who  wrongs  a  poor  Poor  maiden,  and  uses  his  wealth  as  an  excuse  for  his 
fraud,  in  plain  words,  wrongs  his  own  Sister." 

Reginald  fell  back  from  the  tone,  the  deep  steady  gaze  of  Rolof  Sener, 
and  stood  like  a  convicted  culprit  before  his  Judge,  his  hands  hanging  by 
his  side,  his  head  sunken  on  his  breast, 

He  did  not  raise  his  eyes  until  many  moments  were  passed. 

11  Come,  my  Lord,"  said  Rolof,  in  a  changed  voice,  "How  do  you  know 
that  your  mother  was  murdered  in  this  room  ?" 

"  From  the  day  when  my  father  saw  her  embark  for  England,  not  a 
word  was  ever  heard  of  my  mother,  nor  of  the  ship  in  which  she  sailed, 
until  three  years  ago.  Then,  in  a  letter,  without  a  signature,  my  father 
was  informed,  that  the  ship  had  been  taken  by  a  Pirate  vessel,  and  that 
my  mother,  Alice  of  Lyndulfe,  had  been  brought  to  Philadelphia,  by  one 
of  the  pirates,  soon  after  the  capture  of  the  ship." 


\ 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  449 
"With  what  object,  pray?"  asked  Rolof. 

"  The  anonymous  letter  gave  me  no  motive,"  said  Reginald — "It  merely 
stated  that  she  was  brought  to  Philadelphia,  in  secresy,  and  concealed  in 
the  house  of  a  good  citizen,  who  was  a  confederate  of  the  pirate  crew." 

"One  of  those  good  merchants  who  go  to  church  on  Sunday,  and  fit 
out  a  slave-ship  on  Monday  morning  ?"  suggested  Rolof — "When  the 
cargo  of  slaves  die  off,  or  prove  unprofitable,  what  so  easy, — so  mercantile 
— as  to  transform  the  Slaver  into  the  Pirate.    Go  on,  my  child." 

"It  was  this  information,  that  induced  my  father  to  send  me  to  Phila- 
delphia, three  years  ago.  While  here,  in  fact  on  the  morning  of  January 
First,  '75,  a  London  paper  was  handed  to  me,  which  contained  "  the  last 
speech  and  confession  of  one  Greiley  a  Pirate"  who  had  been  executed 
at  Tyburn  in  the  fall  of  '74.  This  "speech"  stated  distinctly  that  on  the 
23d  of  November,  1756,  a  woman  was  murdered,  on  the  Wissahikon,  near 
Philadelphia,  by. a  man  named  Torfen  or  Dormer,  the  confederate  of  a 
band  of  pirates,  robbers,  or — slave-dealers." 

"  You  put  the  slave-dealer,  who  is  a  very  respectable  person  and  a 
Christian  withal,  in  very  dubious  company,"  said  Rolof  Sener,  with  a 
smile — "  Well,  the  motive  of  the  deed  ?" 

"  The  husband  of  the  woman  was  supposed  to  have  a  large  amount  of 
plate  and  coin — all  gold — concealed  on  some  Island,  in  the  West  Indies," 
resumed  Reginald.  "  This  confederate  Torfen  or  Dormer,  attempted  to 
wring  from  her  lips,  the  secret  of  this  place  of  concealment.  She  was 
seized  with  the  pains  of  child-birth,  while  the  ruffian's  hand  was  at  her 
throat.  She  died  '  and  her  body  was  concealed  in  a  closet,  near  a  window 
which  looks  out  upon  a  chesnut  tree*  so  the  Confession  ran,  '■and  the  child 
was  taken  away.'  " 

"  And  you  came  here  to-day,  in  order  to  search  that  closet  ?"  asked 
Rolof.  . 

"  That  was  my  purpose.  The  merchant  Hopkins,  to  whom  my  Father 
entrusted  the  matter,  has  never  written,  since  the  hour  when  I  left  Phila- 
delphia, more  than  two  years  ago.  Therefore  I  conjecture  that  all  traces 
of  the  deed  have  long  since  been  removed,  or  that  Hopkins  has  been  un- 
able to  obtain  access  to  this  room,  on  account  of  Dorfner's  repulsive  and 
ferocious  character." 

"Why  not  invoke  the  aid  of  the  law  ?" 

"  Do  you  not  perceive  that  this  would  foil  all  my  father's  plans  ?  He 
is  by  no  means  certain  that  the  murdered  woman  and  my  mother,  are  the 
same.    Then  the  confession  of  the  dying  pirate,  strong  enough  to  warrant 
,  a  suspicion,  is  still  by  no  means  sufficient,  to  ensure  a  successful  prose- 
cution." 

"  And  yet  there  is  the  medal,  found  by  yourself,  on  the  breast  of  Made- 
line, an  Orphan  Girl,  whose  parentage  no  one  could  trace.  The  very 
coin,  which  your  father  placed  around  the  neck  of  his  wife,  twenty-one 

29 


450  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

years  ago,  while  I  sat  by  his  side,  and  you — a  very  babe— laughed  in  his 
eyes." 

"  Could  I  speak  to  my  father  of  this  medal  ?  Could  I  tell  him  that—" 
Reginald  paused  ;  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face,  and  after  a  moment  he 
continued,  in  a  hollow  whisper — "  Beside,  what  need  was  there  to  prose- 
cute the  inquiry  ?  Madeline  was  dead — I  dare  not  tell  my  father  so— but 
she  was  dead,  before  I  left  Philadelphia,  on  that  fatal  morning  " 

"There  is  the  closet,"  said  Rolof  again  turning  his  chair,  and  bending 
over  the  table,  »«  You  had  better  search  it.  If  there's  any  truth  in  the 
confession  of  the  pirate,  you  may  discover  some  traces  of  the  murdered 
woman." 

Reginald  gazed  for  a  moment  upon  the  singular  being,  who  sat  with 
downcast  head,  and  eyes  fixed  upon  the  manuscripts  which  covered  the 
table,  and  then  slowly  advancing  toward  the  closet,  '•near  the  window 
which  looked  out  upon  the  chesnut  tree,'  he  laid  his  hand  upon  its  single 
panel  reaching  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor. 

The  western  window  was  shaded,  as  we  have  said  before,  by  a  cloak 
or  some  other  garment,  which  only  permitted  a  few  wandering  gleams  of 
light,  to  tremble  over  the  floor. 

His  hand  upon  the  panel,  Reginald  felt  an  unknown  terror  steal  through 
his  veins  ;  he  dared  not  open  the  closet  door. 

"  It  is  dark  and  gloomy  in  this  corner  of  the  room,"  he  muttered,  ana 
tore  the  dust-covered  garment  from  the  window.  A  flood  of  light,  rushed 
through  the  narrow  panes,  and  revealed  the  face  of  Reginald,  distorted  by 
a  new  emotion,  surprise  mingled  with  Remorse. 

It  was  the  dress  of  Madeline,  which  lay  at  his  feet.  Yes  dingy  and 
moth-eaten,  as  it  was,  that  garment  had  enveloped  her  young  limbs,  on  the 
fatal  night,  when  she  clasped  Gilbert  Morgan  by  the  hands,  and  kindled 
into  blushes  at  his  kiss.    It  was  her  wedding  dress. 

Reginald  was  a  man  of  the  world  ;  that  is,  he  had  whiled  away,  a  year 
or  more  at  a  sound  Orthodox  College,  made  some  advances  toward  Latin 
and  Greek,  whirled  through  Europe  in  search  of  the  picturesque,  learned 
all  the  manners  of  a  gentleman,  from  drinking  his  third  bottle  of  Cham- 
pagne, without  staggering,  to  killing  his  man  in  a  duel  without  a  tremor, 
or  crushing  the  honor  of  some  unprotected  woman,  without  a  blush — he 
was  a  man  of  the  world.  He  was  an  officer  in  the  service  of  his  Ma- 
jesty ;  he  was  heir  to  a  Dukedom  ;  he  was  a  finished  specimen  of  Bri- 
tish Chivalry,  in  its  transition  state  it  may  be,  yet  still  British  Chivalry. 

But  now  he  trembled  and  shook,  and  grew  pale  like  any  common  man. 

One  of  the  rude  'blackguard  people'  could  not  have  manifested  more 
ungentlemanly  feeling.  Tears  started  to  his  eyes,  tears  such  as  every-, 
day  people  weep,  only  somewhat  more  bitter  and  scalding.  Could  Jacopo 
have  seen  him,  at  this  moment,  he  would  have  been  ashamed  of  his  pupil 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  451 

for  Reginald  was  no  longer  a  man  of  the  world,  nor  a  gentleman,  but  sim- 
ply— a  man. 

All  the  manhood,  that  the  world  had  left  in  his  breast,  was  now  roused 
into  spasmodic  life. 

The  wedding  dress  of  the  murdered  girl,  lay  at  his  feet — his,  hand  was 
on  the  panel  of  the  closet,  which  was  supposed  to  conceal  the  skeleton 
of  her  murdered  mother. 

And  the  girl,  who  had  been  murdered  in  that  room  two  years  before, 
and  the  woman  who  twenty-one  years  gone  by,  had  died  by  violent  hands, 
in  the  anguish  of  a  mother's  pains,  also  in  that  room,  were  joined  in  the 
holiest  relationship,  Mother  and  Daughter.  And  the  blood  which  coursed 
in  Reginald's  veins,  was  also  their  blood ;  two  words  started  to  his  lips, 
as  he  thought  of  them,  words  that  crushed  him  into  abject  misery,  with 
their  meaning — Mother  !    Sister  ! 

Unable  to  speak,  he  bent  down,  and  raised  the  dress  of  Madeline,  and 
laid  it  gently  on  the  bed.  Then  gazing  from  the  window,  he  saw  the  glad 
sunshine,  resting  upon  the  garden  and  its  flowers — sleeping  upon  the  broad 
field,  strown  with  heaps  of  new-mown  hay — and  gilding  with  living  light 
the  tops  of  the  distant  forest  trees.  All  was  calm  and  peaceful  there,  yes 
all  without  breathed  of  day  and  sunshine,  but  within  was  darkness,  the 
night  of  Remorse,  with  the  memory  of  Madeline  written  upon  its  very 
gloom. 

"  Shall  I  pursue  this  search  ?"  he  said  aloud,  in  a  changed  voice,  and 
with  the  desire  of  crushing  his  emotions — "  Dorfner  may  come;  and  I  do 
not  wish  to  meet  him,  at  least,  until  I  am  certain  of  his  guilt—" 

Rolof  Sener  seated  at  the  table  did  not  reply ;  his  head  bent  upon  his 
breast,  he  appeared  lost  in  his  studies. 

Gazing  through  the  window,  Reginald  saw  the  garden  with  the  arbor 
rising  in  its  centre,  and  there,  enshrined  among  the  vines. of  the  arbor, 
appeared  the  round  face  of  Peter  Dorfner,  its  cheeks  and  beard  and  eyes, 
bathed  at  once,  in  sunshine  and  in — sleep. 

"Peter  will  not  disturb  you,"  said  Rolof  without  turning  his  head. 
"  I  found  him,  not  many  moments  since,  in  a  position  of  some  danger,— 
sleeping  with  the  knife  of  his  blind  Negro,  poised  over  his  head.  I  turned 
the  blow  aside,  and  entered  the  house, — Peter  will  sleep  until  his  time 
comes." 

The  last  words  were  accompanied  by  a  burst  of  half-suppressed  laugh- 
ter. 

The  door  of  the  closet  was  unlocked  ;  Reginald  drew  it  open,  and  gazed 
within. 

"  There  is  nothing  here,"  he  cried  with  an  accent  of  profound  disap- 
pointment—" The  closet  is  sunken  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall.  It  is 
empty.    There  is  no  sign  nor  mark  of  any  secret  recess." 


452 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  Sound  the  wall  with  the  hilt  of  your  hunting  knife,"  the  voice  of 
Rolof  Sener  was  heard. 

"It  returns  only  a  dull,  leaden  sound,"  exclaimed  Reginald  sounding 
the  wall  to  the  right  and  left.  "This  cannot  be  the  place  of  concealment 
mentioned  in  the  Pirate's  confession.    Hold  !  What  is  this  !" 

The  back  wall  of  the  closet,  resembling  in  its  dark  hue  a\id  time-worn 
appearance,  the  walls  on  the  right  and  left,  echoed  the  blow  of  the  knife, 
with  a  sharp,  hollow  sound.  Reginald  struck  again,  and  again  with  the 
hilt  of  a  knife,  and  suddenly  it  receded  from  him,  and  separated  from  the 
body  of  the  closet,  like  a  door  swinging  on  its  hinges. 

The  scene  which  Reginald  beheld,  deprived  him  for  a  moment  of  all 
power  of  speech  or  motion.  His  face  was  bathed  in  a  red  and  murky 
light,  which  struggled  through  the  aperture,  aud — contending  with  the 
light  of  day — made  his  features  assume  a  livid  and  spectral  hue 
N  He  stood  upon  the  threshold  of  a  small  room,  whose  doors  and  win- 
dows, did  not  seem  to  have  been  unclosed  for  at  least  twenty  years.  It 
was  the  room  which  intervened  between  the  stairway  and  the  chamber 
of  Madeline.  Over  a  large  table  of  smoke-darkened  wood,  a  flickering 
tallow  candle,  inserted  in  a  rusty  candlestick,  shed  its  red  and  murky  light, 
while  the  rest  of  the  apartment  was  enveloped  in  gloom.  In  one  corner 
the  outlines  of  a  bed,  were  dimly  discernible,  and  near  the  feet  of  Regi- 
nald, appeared  a  dark  space  in  the  floor.  A  plank  had  been  torn  away  ; 
the  dark  space  was  the  aperture,  between  the  floor  and  the  ceiling  of  the 
lower  room. 

"  Pah  !  It  smells  like  a  vault !  Ah,  I  remember  ;  it  was  in  this  room 
I  was  to  have  slept  two  years  ago.  Can  you  tell  me  Sir,  what  it  means  f 
he  continued,  turning  his  head  toward  Rolof  Sener,  who  was  still  seated 
at  the  table  in  the  Chamber  of  Madeline — "  This  light  burning  here,  in 
broad  day  ?" 

"  The  light  itself  may  satisfy  your  curiosity.  Look  on  the  table,  be- 
neath its  rays." 

Reginald  advanced  to  the  table,  carefully  avoiding  the  cavity  in  the 
floor.  He  discovered  that  a  portion  of  the  table  was  covered  by  a  dingy 
cloth,  which  bore  some  resemblance  to  the  fragment  of  an  old  sail. 

"  There  is  nothing  here,"  he  cried — "  Nothing  but  a  smoky  candle  and 
piece  of  old  sail.  The  room  itself  looks  as  though  it  might  have  been  the 
private  study  of  a  Sexton  or  Undertaker." 

"Lift  the  cloth,  my  Lord — "  said  a  soft,  low  voice,  and  Rolof  Sener 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  young  man.  Reginald  felt  an  in- 
describable sensation  pervade  him  at  the  touch  of  that  hand  ;  he  gazed 
sidelong  upon  the  pale  face,  and  bold  forehead  of  Rolof  Sener— lighted  by 
the  red  rays  of  the  candle— and  a  thought  came  over  his  mind  that  he  had 
seen  that  face  before.    Where  ? 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.      *  453 

"  You  seem  to  hesitate,"  said  Rolof— "are  you  afraid  to  lift  that  bit  of 

sackcloth  ?" 

Reginald  replied  with  a  laugh,  and  placing  his  knife  in  the  girdle  of  his 
hunting  shirt,  raised  the  sackcloth  from  the  table.  The  smile  which  hung 
about  his  manly  lips,  the  flush  upon  his  cheek,  the  careless  light  in  his 
deep  blue  eyes — all  passed  away,  and  he  fell  back  silent  and  wondering. 

The  skeleton  of  a  human  being  was  stretched  upon  the  table  ;  and  the 
light  tinged  with  red  lustre  every  bone,  and  glared  as  if  in  mockery,  into 
the  hollow  orbits  of  the  skull. 

44  Your  mother  !"  whispered  Rolof  Sener.  He  took  the  hand  of  Regi- 
nald within  his  own,  and  pointed  to  the  cavity  in  the  floor.  44  Behold  her 
grave  !" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIXTH. 

A  LETTER  FROM  THE  DEAD  MOTHER. 

Reginald  of  Lyndulfe  was  kneeling  there  beside  the  remains  of  his 
murdered  Mother. 

His  face  was  buried  in  his  hands,  and  the  red  light  which  mocked  the 
crumbling  skeleton,  shone  over  the  luxuriant  chesnut  curls  of  the  young 
Lord.  j\Tot  a  sound  disturbed  the  stillness ;  the  door  which  led  into 
Madeline's  room  was  closed,  and  the  candle  fast  burning  to  its  socket, 
flung  its  uncertain  and  nickering  light  into  the  sha'dows  of  the  narrow 
apartment. 

Near  Reginald  stood  Rolof  Sener.  Picture  to  yourself  that  form  clad 
in  black,  broad  in  the  chest  and  shoulders,  and  rendered  harsh  in  outline, 
by  the  deformity  of  the  spine,  while  the  long  pallid  face  seems  to  rest  not 
so  much  upon  the  neck  as  upon  the  chest.  His  large  head  stood  out  from 
the  gloom,  and  as  the  light  flickered  and  fell,  his  features  seemed  to  pass 
through  every  change  of  expression,  now  scowling  in  sullen  scorn,  now 
beaming  with  smiles  and  joy. 

W  ith  his  finger  on  his  lip,  he  stood  near  the  kneeling  man,  looking  like 
a  stern  spirit,  sent  from  the  Other  World  to  judge  between  the  Living  and 
the  Dead. 

While  the  light  shines  upon  those  blackened  bones — which  were  once 
a  beautiful  and  living  form— upon  that  skull — once  it  enthroned  a  Mother's 


454  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

soul — let  us  leave  Reginald  to  the  first  strong  outbreak  of  his  agony.  *  * 

*  *  *  *  ## 

At  last  he  rose  and  confronted  Rolof  Sener  with  a  pallid  face,  and  lustre- 
less eye.  Every  feature  was  steeped  in  dull  apathy ;  this  scene  had 
palsied  him  in  every  nerve. 

"  When  did  you  make  this  discovery  ?"  he  said,  in  an  almost  inaudible 
tone. 

"  An  hour  ago,"  replied  Rolof,  "  urged  by  motives  which  will  be  made 
known  in  due  time,  I  came  toward  this  house,  and  found  old  Dorfner 
sleeping  in  the  arbor  with  the  Negro's  knife  above  his  head.  That  blind 
negro  was  the  slave  of  your  mother ;  at  least  he  fought  for  her  in  her 
dying  hour." 

"  Let  me  go  to  him  at  once,"  said  Reginald,  starting  to  the  door — "  He 
may  tell  us  something  of  my  mother's  fate — " 

"  Not  so  fast.  Listen  before  you  act,  my  Lord.  For  my  own  reasons 
— which  will  also  be  made  known  in  due  time, — I  turned  the  negro's 
hand  aside,  and  left  the  old  man  to  his  slumbers.  Entering  the  house,  I 
lighted  this  candle,  and  sought  the  room  where  you  discovered  me.  I  ob- 
tained entrance  to  the  closet  by  a  false  key,  and  did  not  hesitate  in  my 
researches  until  I  had  discovered  the  secret  door  at  the  back  of  the  closet. 
Then,  I  stood  confounded.  The  pirale's  words  were  false.  This  was 
my  only  thought.  Urged  onward,  however,  by  an  impulse,  which  I  can- 
not account  for — save  as  an  instinctive  interest  in  the  affairs  of  your 
house — I  searched  this  room,  sounded  the  walls,  and  every  board  of  the 
floor.    The  result  of  my  search  is  before  you." 

He  spoke  in  a  calm  and  even  voice,  his  gaze  full  of  sympathy,  every 
lineament  of  his  countenance  steeped  in  sorrow. 

"  But  there  were  papers  with  the  corse  ?  Some  word  to  tell  of  my 
mother's  last  hour  ?    Some  record  of  the  manner  of  her  fate?" 

Reginald  seized  his  hand,  and  trembled  in  suspense,  as  he  awaited  the 
answer. 

"  With  the  skeleton,  I  discovered  certain  papers—"  said  Rolof. 
"Where  are  they  ?    Let  me  behold  them  !" 

"  I  was  engaged  in  the  examination  of  these  papers  when  you  first  ap- 
peared— "  Rolof  began.    "  They  are  in  the  next  room  !" 

"  Ah,  this  indeed  is  the  work  of  Heaven  !  The  record  of  my  mother's 
wrongs — the  manner  of  her  death — the  purpose  of  the  murderers — it  is  all 
written  there  ;  is  it  not  ?" 

Once  more  he  started  to  the  door,  quivering  with  impatience,  but  the 
hand  and  voice  of  Rolof  held  him  back. 

"  Not  one  word  of  your  mother's  fate  !"  was  the  reply,  which  crushed 
every  hope  of  the  young  Lord  into  nothingness.  "  There  are  letters  from 
your  father  to  your  mother,  before  their  marriage,  with  some  manuscripts 
pertaining  to  the  ancient  history  of  your  house,  but  that  is  all." 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


455 


Reginald's  countenance  was  clouded  in  apathetic  gloom. 

"  It  is  indeed  a  mystery,"  he  said,  and  taking  the  light,  gazed  into  the 
cavity,  which  had  for  twenty  years  encoffined  his  mother's  form.  It  was 
a  narrow  place,  between  the  huge  planks,  not  more  than  eighteen  inches 
wide,  and  scarcely  a  foot  in  depth.  The  bottom  which  formed  the  ceiling 
of  the  lower  room,  was  strown  with  dust.*  A  feeling  of  freezing  awe 
came  over  Reginald  as  bending  down  he  looked  into  the  aperture. 

"  Ah  !  They  must  have  crushed  her  body  into  this  narrow  space,"  he 
muttered — "  It  is  too  horrible  for  thought !  Her  blood  yet  warm,  they 
trampled  her  into  this  cavity,  and  nailed  the  board  over  her  mangled  face, 
while  the  breath  yet  lingered  on  her  lips." 

Reginald  held  the  candle  directly  over  the  cavity,  and  thrust  his  hand 
into  the  dust — or  ashes — which  overspread  its  lower  boards.  Fragments 
of  a  dress,  which  crumbled  like  the  cinders  of  burnt  paper,  the  moment  he 
grasped  them — the  half-severed  bones  of  a  hand — a  mass  of  hair,  long  and 
waving,  and  yet  covered  with  the  mould  of  the  tomb — these  were  the 
fruits  of  his  search.  At  last  from  among  that  dust,  which  had  once  been 
Life,  he  drew  a  folded  paper,  dark  and  clammy,  as  with  the  taint  and 
stain  of  Death. 

He  opened  it,  and  by  the  candle-light  saw  that  it  was  covered  with 
writing,  which  was  in  many  places,  blotted  by  a  dingy  red  stain ;  some  of 
the  lines  were  altogether  obliterated,  and  even  the  plainest  words  were 
difficult  to  read. 

He  smoothed  it  out  upon  the  floor,  near  the  cavity,  and  bent  down,  his 
breath  coming  in  gasps,  his  eye  fired  with  sudden  light. 

"The  twenty-third  of  November!"  he  exclaimed,  "Joy!  Thank  God  ! 
Here  at  last  we  have  some  words,  traced  by  my  mother's  hand  !" 

Rolof  Sener  heard  this  exclamation  with  a  start ;  his  face  was  changed 
in  every  lineament ;  at  once  he  sank  by  Reginald's  side,  and  looked  over 
his  shoulder,  his  large  eyes  dilating,  and  flashing  with  the  intensity  of 
madness. 

There  was  a  dead  silence,  as  kneeling  together,  they  perused  that  blotted 
record,  which  seemed,  and  was  in  truth,  a  voice  from  the  Dead. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  attempt  to  explain  the  full  meaning,  which  that  paper 
was  originally  intended  to  convey,  nor  will  we  dare  to  erase  its  blots,  and 
read  the  words,  buried  beneath  their  dark  red  stain.  But  as  the  paper, 
the  Letter  from  the  Dead,  appeared  to  the  eyes  of  these  silent  and  breath- 
less men,  who  knelt  upon  the  floor  in  the  dimly  lighted  room,  and  fol- 
lowed its  every  word  with  eye  and  soul,  we  now  place  it  upon  this  page 
of  our  history. 


*  The  reader  will  bear  in  mind,  that  the  floor  of  this  room  was  separated  from  the 
ceiling  of  the  lower  room  by  a  range  of  rafters,  while  that  ceiling — formed  of  boards 
— was  in  its  turn  supported  by  another  range  of  rafters,  which  were  uncovered. 


456  PAUL  ARDElsHEiM  ;  OR, 

Alice — 

Should  these  lines,  traced  with  a  hand,  fevered  by  disease  ever 
meet  your  eyes,  you  will  learn  something  of  the  fate  of  your  poor  frieyid, 

Oath  ...       .    if&Vjr.'H  4#*ftt<p>*<M  ^     .  '    .    ;7  . 
the  clay  when  our  ship  was  boarded  by  pirates,  who  threatened  to  disman- 
tle it,  and  consign  every  soul  to  the  waves,  unless  '  the  person  and  property 
of  Lady  Alice,  wife  of  Right  Hon.  Clarence  Albert  Lyndulfe  was  sur- 
rendered to  them'      •  .       .       .       .  . 

scene  which  ensued 
.  .       my  poor  husband,  John  Conwell,  had  died  the  week  before, 
a  poor  lieutenant  on  half  pay       .       .       widow  a  beggar 

had  received  kindness  at  your  husband1 's  hands,  while  in  the 

West  Indies,  and  /  was  alone  in 

the  world;  your  life  was  valuable  

.  notwithstanding  your  entreaties,  1  assumed  your 
dress,  ornaments,  etc.,  and  some  personal  resemblance  aided  my  disguise  . 


from  the  decks  of  the  pirate  vessel  I  saw  the  Artemesia  on  her 
way    .      .      .      .       .       .      .      i      .      V''  ^n***  W1*-''^ 

 concealed  for  a  month  or 

more  in  the  City  of  Philadelphia,  and  now  am  a  prisoner  in  a  house, 
in  the  midst  of  a  forest ;  how  far  from  the  city  I  know  not. 

To  day  my  persecutors  came  ;  they  had  searched  your  chests,  but  with- 
out finding  the  gold  or  the  papers  for  which  they  sought.  They  assailed 
me  with  threats,  and  demanded  of  me,  either  the  gold  plate,  or  papers,  or 

they  said  my  life  

from  their  broken  hints,  I  imagine  that  yaur  husband  was  in  some  mea- 
sure, connected  with  an  attempt  to  destroy  this  terrible  organization 

papers  containing  matter  sufficient  . to  put,  in  peril  the  lives  of  many  noble 
and  wealthy  persons,  not  only  in  England,  but  in  the  Colonies,  were  con- 
tained in  the  chest,  entrusted  by  your  husband  to  the  Captain  of  the  Arte- 
mesia. .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 

.  slave  traffic  and 

pir  -  itf    ^s^^^ff^v^tt^-  ^v^SKF^^S 

a  hope  of  deliverance  dawns  upon  me  J  A  poor  negro,  whom  I  saw  on 
board  of  the  pirate  ship,  and  whom  my  husband,  had  rescued  a  year  ago, 
from  a  severe  punishment,  in  Jamaica,  has  followed  me,  discovered  the 
place  of  my  concealment,  and  it  is  to  his  hands  that  I  entrust  this  let  . 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


457 


.    and  01  Alice!  if  the  child  that  now  throbs  within  me, 
ever  should  see  the  light,  to  you  and  to  yours  1  dedicate 

be  called,  Madeline  ..... 

Catheline  Con  

Such  was  the  letter,  blotted  with  blood  and  tears,  which  Rolof  and  Re- 
ginald perused  by  the  uncertain  light,  as  they  knelt  side  by  side  on  the 
floor  of  that  room,  whose  atmosphere  breathed  memories  of  crime  and 
death. 

"What  does  it  mean  ?"  gasped  Reginald,  after  a  long  pause — and  the 
letter  shook  in  his  quivering  fingers.  "  It  is  a  letter  to  my  mother — writ- 
ten by  whom  ?" 

Rolof  was  silent. 

Resting  his  arm  on  his  knee,  he  bent  his  head,  low  on  his  breast  and 
remained  for  many  moments  absorbed  in  profound  thought. 

Reginald  gazing  oyer  his  shoulder,  at  his  motionless  form,  saw  his  lips 
move,  while  his  eyes  grew  spectral,  glassy — as  though  the  Soul  of  the 
strange  man  was  buried  within  its  tortuous  thoughts. 

Again  he  repeated  his  question  

"  By  whom  was  it  written  ?  It  is  like  a  dream  !  Thoughts  as  vague 
and  frightful  as  the  visions  of  a  night-mare  crowd  upon  me.  Speak!  You 
that  seem  to  know  the  history  of  my  race,  as  though  you  were  its  Des- 
tiny— speak  !" 

Rolof  raised  his  face,  and  while  his  gaze  was  fixed  upon  the  pallid  face 
of  Reginald — looking  at  him  and  yet  seeming  not  to  see  him — he  spoke, 
in  those  measured  and  musical  tones,  which  at  once  enchained  the  listen- 
er's ear. 

This  appears  to  me,  to  be  the  truth  of  the  matter.  The  ship  Arte- 
mesia,  bound  from  Jamaica  to  England,  at  the  close  of  the  summer  of 
1756,  in  the  second  week  of  her  passage,  was  boarded  by  pirates.  Their 
chief  threatened  to  destroy  the  vessel  and  murder  the  passengers — in  fact, 
sacrifice  every  soul— unless  the  person  and  property  of  Alice,  wife  of  the 
Right  Honorable  Clarence  Albert  Lyndulfe,  were  surrendered  to  him—" 

"His  object,"  interrupted  Reginald — "Wherefore  demand — my  mo- 
ther?" 

"The  widow  of  a  poor  officer— named  John  Conwell,  who  had  died 
the  first  week  of  the  voyage— assumed  the  dress  and  ornaments  of  the 
Lady  Alice,  and  was  transferred  to  the  deck  of  the  pirate  vessel  in  her 
place.  It  seems  she  bore  a  striking  personal  resemblance  to  your  mother, 
at  least  she  reasoned  thus,  '  You  Lady  Alice  are  rich  and  noble  ;  a  hus- 
band, a  child  are  yours.    I  am  poor  and  alone  in  the  world.    I  will  as- 


458 


PAUL  ARDENHElM  ;  OR, 


sume  your  place,  and  leave  the  rest  to  Heaven  !'  —  It  was  a  silly  and  yet  a 
noble  thought,  especially  for  a  poor  woman." 

"But  the  Captain  of  the  vessel  was  base — cowardly  !"  cried  Reginald — 
"  To  permit  the  sacrifice  !  Better  have  gone  down  with  his  ship,  or  blown 
her  into  the  air.    Better,  much  better — " 

"From  the  deck  of  the  pirate  ship,  Catherine  Con  well,  saw  the  good 
ship  Artemesia  pursue  her  way,"  continued  Rolof,  without  seeming  to 
regard  the  presence  of  Reginald — "Possibly  saw  the  beautiful  Lady  Alice, 
waving  her  'kerchief  to  the  breeze.  That  was  the  last  that  ever  was  seen 
of  the  good  ship  Artemesia  ;  foundered  in  a  gale  perchance  ;  or  destroyed 
by  fire,  it  may  be  ;  she  never  reached  her  destination.  Of  course  all  on 
board  perished  with  her." 

Reginald  uttered  a  groan. 

"  As  for  the  widow  of  the  poor  officer,  on  half-pay,  we  find  her  next  in 
Philadelphia,  whither  she  has  been  taken  by  the  pirates  and  their  confede* 
rates.  How  she  was  taken  there,  or  where  concealed  it  is  not  for  me  to 
say.  After  a  month  or  more,  she  was  removed  to  the  house  of  Peter 
Dorfner,  on  the  Wissahikon,  and  with  her  the  chests  and  so  forth,  contain- 
ing the  property  of  Clarence  Albert  Lyndulfe — your  father.  The  good 
Peter — and  may  be  some  virtuous  merchants  of  Philadelphia — searched 
the  chests,  stamped,  with  your  father's  initials,  but  searched  in  vain." 

"  For  what  did  they  search  ?"  again  interrupted  Reginald. 

"  Perhaps  for  gold  plate, — it  may  be  for  doubloons — I  cannot  tell.  But 
Clarence  Albert,  had  become  a  very  rich  man,  in  the  course  of  three  years. 
It  has  been  said  that  he  was  largely  interested  in  the  slave  traffic — nay,  I 
have  heard  it  stated  that  he  was  connected  with  a  wide-spread  organiza- 
tion, whose  object  was  the  most  comprehensive  system  of  stealing  and 
selling,  human  flesh  and  blood." 

"  A  base  calumny  !" 

"  Let  us  for  the  sake  of  argument  admit  that  he  was  connected  with  this 
organization.  That  having  made  money  enough,  by  its  members,  he  was 
determined  to  confide  their  darker  secrets,  to  the  ears  of  the  Royal  Minis- 
try, and  thus  reap  a  rich  harvest  of  reputation  for  loyalty  and  other  valu- 
able qualities — " 

«  This  is  too  much  !"  cried  Reginald — "  You  slander  my  father — I  will 
hear  no  more !" 

"  Therefore  he  conceals  in  a  certain  chest — confided  to  the  care  of  the 
Captain  of  the  Artemesia — "  continued  Rolof,  without  regarding  the  an- 
gry tone  of  the  young  Lord — "  A  series  of  papers,  which  embody  secrets, 
very  dangerous  to  the  lives  of  more  than  one,  rich  and  titled  personage, 
not  only  in  England,  but  also  in  his  Majesty's  colonies.  These  papers 
reveal  the  existence  of  a  wide-spread  organization,  whose  banner  bears 
but  two  words,  Man-Stealing  .  .  .  Piracy.  In  a  word,  these  papers,  strike 
at  reputation,  fortunes,  lives,  and  the  members  of  the  aforesaid  organiza- 


\ 

THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  459 

tion,  gaining  intelligence  of  Clarence-Albert's  loyalty— or  treachery — deter- 
mine to  seize  his  wife  and  property,  at  one  swoop.' 

"  But  this  is  a  dream,"  exclaimed  Reginald — "  A  fancy  thin  as  air  !" 

"  They  have  the  chest  in  their  possession,  and  with  it,  Catherine  Con- 
well,  the  silly  woman  who  personated  the  Lady  Alice.  They  search  the 
chest,  but  do  not  find  the  object  of  their  search.  They  threaten  the  poor 
woman  with  death,  unless  she  tells  them,  in  what  part  of  Clarence-Al- 
bert's plantations,  the  secret  is  concealed.  She  cannot  tell  them,  for  the 
rather  forcible  reason,  that  she  does  not  know  herself.  And  on  he  23rd 
of  November — a  fatal,  fatal  day  for  the  house  of  Lyndulfe  !  the  poor  wo- 
man beholds  the  face  of  a  negro  slave,  who  having  seen  her,  on  board  the 
pirate  ship,  is  determined  to  rescue  her  or  die." 

"  The  same  who  now  lives  with  Dormer  ?" 

"The  husband,  it  seems  saved  the  black  from  a  severe  punishment,  the 
year  before.  He  is  grateful  ;  a  proof  of  his  incapacity  for  civilization. 
And  on  the  fatal  Twenty-third,  the  poor  widow — with  her  unborn  child 
beating  in  her  bosom — writes  the  letter,  which  you  hold,  determining  to 
send  it  by  the  hands  of  the  negro  to  your  mother,  or  to  your  father.  How 
the  miserable  African  was  to  find  them,  is  another  question,  Catherine 
Corwell  seems  to  have  had  faith  in  the  fellow — he  was  grateful.  Well — 
I  hope  you  are  listening  to  my  story.  I  would  not  weary  you  for  the 
world." 

"  You  mock  me.  Go  on — go  on.  Curses  upon  this  scoundrel, 
Dorfner  !" 

"  Well,  to  continue  my  story,"  resumed  Rolof,  still  fixing  his  glassy 
eye  upon  the  floor.  "  She  has  written  her  letter,  or  rather,  she  is  in  the 
act  of  signing  her  name,  when  her  4  persecutors'  appear.  They  question  ; 
she  cannot  answer.  They  proceed  to  violence  ;  crush  her  with  blows,  or 
maybe,  only  frighten  her  into  premature  labor.  The  negro  appears,  fights 
for  her, — in  vain — they  blind  him  with  their  knives.  She  dies  in  the 
throes  of  a  mother's  agony,  and  they  huddle  her  corse,  still  warm,  into  a 
cavity  made  by  removing  a  board  from  the  floor.  They  bury  her  there, 
and  with  her  bury  the  letter,  whose  last  word  is  the  name  of  her  child — 
of  Madeline." 

He  paused.  His  voice  was  soft  and  musical  no  longer.  It  was  harsh, 
husky  with  emotion,  and  his  glassy  eyes,  gazing  so  vacantly  upon  the 
floor,  were  wet  with  tears. 

14  Such  is  the  history  which  I  gather  from  this  letter,  blotted  with  the 
blood  and  tears  of  a  poor  woman.  Well— well  !  What  matter's  it? 
These  poor  creatures  are  only  born  for  the  service  of  the  rich  and  titled. 
She  died  in  the  path  of  her  duty." 

Vain  were  the  attempt  to  paint  the  mingled  emotions  which  contended 
for  the  mastery  on  Reginald's  face.   Kneeling  still — the  cavity  which  had 


460  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

oeen  the  coffin  of  the  poor  woman,  yawning  before  him — he  found  no 
utterance  for  the  thoughts  struggling  within  his  breast. 

"Madeline — Madeline — "  he  gasped,  as  the  fast-crowding  emotions 
swelled  in  his  throat,  and  filled  the  ball  of  each  eye  with  injected  blood  — 
"  Madeline  was  not  my — Sister  !" 

His  soul  was  tossing  in  a  fiery  whirlpool  of  joy  ;  a  mad  delighted 
boundless  intoxication  pervaded  his  whole  being. 

Starting  to  his  feet,  he  placed  the  light  upon  the  table,  and  saw  the 
skeleton  once  more,  but  without  a  shudder 

"  And  my  mother — the  Lady  Alice — died  not — died  not — "  he  wrung 
his  hands  in  the  very  madness  of  delight — "  She  died  not  by  the  hand  of 
violence  !" 

Meanwhile,  Rolof  Sener,  folding  his  arms  upon  his  breast,  watched  his 
raptures  with  a  calm  smile 

"  Madeline  was  a  poor  girl,  after  all,"  whispered  Rolof,  "  The  medal 
which  you  found  upon  her  breast,  was  taken  by  Catherine  Convvell,  from 
your  mother.  The  aristocratic  interest  which  poor  Madeline  first  in- 
spired, seems  now  to  disappear  in  a  measured  pity?  Does  it  not,  my 
Lord  ?" 

"She  was  very  beautiful  !"  answered  Reginald,  gazing  absently  toward 
the  light,  with  his  head  slightly  dropped,  and  something  like  a  tender 
memory  in  his  deep  blue  eye — "Very — very  beautiful!  And  yet — 
and  yet—" 

"  She  was  poor  !"  interrupted  Rolof. 

"  TrUe,  sir,  true.  Beauty  by  the  side  of  a  forest  spring,  with  a  milk- 
pail  in  her  hand,  is  very  touching,  —  no  doubt — but  something  there  is,  in 
high  birth  and  ancestral  associations,  which  gives  a  nameless  charm  to  a 
lovely  woman,  and  bathes  her  whole  form  in  a  dim  and  yet  luxurious 
splendor.  I  could  never  touch  a  woman's  hand  with  so  much  pleasure, 
as  when  I  felt,  that  the  blood  which  bounded  at  my  touch,  had  coursed 
through  the  veins  of  women,  as  fair  and  noble,  a  thousand  years  before  !" 

The  handsome  face  of  the  young  Lord  was  warm  and  glowing  once 
more  ;  every  feature  indicated  that  his  soul — freed  from  the  pressure  of 
almost  supernatural  terror — was  wrapping  itself  in  luxurious  dreams. 

"Your  remarks  indicate  a  cultivated  mind— yes,  the  delicacy  of  taste 
which  is  born  with  true  gentlemen,  and  which  the  vulgar  herd  can  never 
—  never  attain:"  as  he  spoke,  in  his  usual  tone,  so  calm  and  penetrating, 
Rolof  Sener  folded  his  arms  and  regarded  the  young  Lord  with  a  fixed 
and  tranquil  gaze.  "  Search  the  history  of  England's  aristocracy,  and 
what  do  we  see?  The  men  all  gallant  and  chivalric;  no  brutal  murders, 
no  dastardly  assassinations  ;  not  a  single  perjury  from  an  English  noble- 
man in  the  course  of  six  hundred  years.  Can  the  world  furnish  a  picture 
so  commanding,  so  astounding  in  all  its  details  ?  Behold  the  Lord  of  all 
noblemen,  the  British  King !     From  Henry  the  Eighth,  who  reformed 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


461 


Religion  in  the  arms  of  his  courtezans,  down  to  Charles  the  Second,  who 
made  Lust  a  God,  and  Chastity  a  crime — how  grand,  how  heroic  the  British 
King !  Their  noble  blood,  transmitted  without  taint,  through  the  course 
of  six  centuries  ;  ah,  it  is  touching,  it  is  sublime  ;  this  pure  stream  of 
aristocracy,  flowing  on  so  serenely,  through  the  veins  of  men,  noble  above 
all— honor ;  and  women,  too  pure  for — such  slight  things  as  marriage  vows  ! 
The  untainted  blood  it  is  that  touches  us  into  tears,  as  if  no  base  born 
lacquey  ever  trailed  his  livery  over  the  velvet  of  a  Ducal  marriage  bed,  or 
as  though  the  loftiest  Dukedoms  that  England  reveres,  did  not  date  their 
origin  from  the  moment,  when  some  new  'court  beauty'  grew  loving  with 
'  Faith,'  in  the  person  of  its  Defender,  a  British  King ! 

"  A  Royal  Race,  beginning  with  William,  a  robber,  and  ending  in  our 
day  with  George,  an  idiot.  Between  this  Alpha  and  Omega,  what  an 
alphabet  of  cnivalrous  virtue,  colored  with  the  hues  of  every  crime,  from 
murder  done  openly  on  the  scaffold,  murder  done  sublimely  on  the  battle- 
field, down  to  the  solemn  bestialities  of  James  the  First,  a  Solomon,  whose 
life  was  one  incessant  Song  in  praise  of  filth,  whose  noblest  thought  was 
a  Proverb  of  blasphemy  against  all  things  holy  to  God  and  man.  Range 
these  noblemen  side  by  side,  adorn  their  spotless  ranks  with  the  wives  of 
Henry,  or  the  concubines  of  Charles  ;  let  Elizabeth,  the  Virgin,  stand  at 
one  end,  with  her  platonic  lovers  at  her  feet,  and  Mary  the  Butcher  at  the 
other,  with  odors  from  Smithfield  curling  like  incense  to  her  very  nostrils, 
and  then,  contrast  with  these,  the  embodied  forms  of  Royal  virtue  and 
Gentle  blood,  that  rugged  Clown, — that  base  born  Peasant — that  image  of 

the  rugged  People — Oliver  Cromwell.  You  will  excuse  my  warmth, 

when  you  remember,  that  I  am, an  enthusiast  on  the  score  of  noblemen  ; 
and  British  nobility,  its  lineage  and  virtues,  was  always  my  passion.' 

Reginald  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  Ha,  ha,  you  are  disposed  to  be  severe,  my  good  Rolof,"  he  said, 
"  There  is  a  sort  of  pungent  malice  in  your  remarks,  which  gives  your 
conversation  the  flavor  of  old  wine  !" 

"Your  own  family,  young  Lord,  the  race  of  Lyndulfe,  present  a  striking 
embodiment  of  the  stern,  heroic  virtues  of  the  British  aristocracy — "  Ro- 
lof's  face  was  perfectly  pale  and  passionless,  his  tone  low  and  emphatic — 
"  Did  you  ever  chance  to  unclose  the  pages  of  your  family  history  ?" 

M  Never,"  cried  Reginald,  smiling — "  The  very  idea  smacks  of  black 
letter  and  cobwebs." 

"  Yes  :  you  are  right,  that  history  is  stamped  in  black  letters — the 
black  letters  of  madness  and  murder  !  It  is  hung  with  cobwebs — cobwebs 
which  cover  the  records  of  Parricide  !" 

41  You  take  strange  liberties,  sir.  It  is  not  for  me  to  hear  language  such 
as  this—'? 

f  Ah,  and  is  it  so  ?  Your  delicate  ear  revolts  at  my  uncourtly  speech  ! 
Let  me  have  your  hand — soh — this  is  the  hand  of  a  brave  man,  a  Lord. 


462 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


It  can  wield  a  swore!  or  pen  a  love  ditty,  or  mingle  poison  in  the  wine-cup 
of  some  beautiful  Italian  damsel — a  noble  hand,  by  my  faith !" 

Reginald  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  cheek,  but  the  large  eyes  of  Rolof 
held  him  motionless.  He  stood  there,  helpless  as  a  culprit  in  the  hang- 
man's hands. 

44  And  yet  this  hand,  within  twelve  hours,  may  be  stained  with  the  blood 
of  a  Father  !  Pah  !  I  see  the  loathsome  dye  upon  it,  even  now — 'tis  a 
brave  hand  !" 

He  flung  the  hand  from  him,  as  though  it  had  been  an  adder. 

"  Your  deformity  protects  you,"  sneered  Reginald,  choaking  with  anger. 

At  that  word  a  change,  as  sudden  as  frightful,  came  over  the  face  of 
Rolof  Sener — the  black  vein  swelled  out  upon  his  massive  forehead — his 
eyes,  sunken  beneath  the  downdrawn  brows,  glared  with  deadly  lustre. 
He  spoke  again,  his  voice  lower  and  yet  more  distinct,  everv  measured 
syllable  falling  on  Reginald's  ear,  like  a  separate  torture. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-EIGHTH. 

"THE  CURSE   OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  LYNDULFE 

You  have  come  to  Wissahikon, — to  seek  the  murderers  of  your 
mother — to  weep  over  the  ashes  of  Madeline  ?  No— trickster,  your 
schemes  are  webs  for  flies  —  they  do  not  blind  the  eyes  of  men.  You 
come  hither,  in  the  uniform  of  his  Majesty,  your  life  at  the  beck  of  any 
rebel  who  may  chance  to  spy  the  scarlet  under  the  blue — you  come  hither 
to  prosecute  an  amour  with  the  daughter  of  Sir  Ralph  Wyttonhurst.  Do 
you  intend  marriage? — Perchance  to-night?  Well,  the  bridal  party  is 
assembled,  the  Preacher  is  waiting,  book  in  hand,  when  your  father  breaks 
in  upon  the  scene,  and  tears  you  from  your  beautiful  Leola !" 

"  He  dare  not,"  gasped  Reginald,  "  By  Heaven,  he  dare  not — ' 

"  Said  I  not  so  ?  He  lays  his  hand  upon  you — 'tis  a  way  the  Lyn- 
aulfes  have  !  You  submit,  and  like  a  child  caught  in  the  pantry  among 
the  sweetmeats,  are  dragged  away  to  receive  your  chastisement.  You 
would  not  strike  your  father  ?" 

The  brow  of  the  young  Lord  was  corrugated;  he  stood  panting  and 
trembling,  with-  his  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  his  knife. 

M  He  dare  not,  he  dare  not, — "  the  muttered  words  came  through  his 
set  teeth. 


t 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  463 

"  Read,  O  read  the  history  of  your  race,  and  then  look  into  the  mirror 
and  behold  your  own  visage,  stamped  with  the  curse,  which  has  descended 
from  father  to  son,  through  the  dark  course  of  two  hundred  years  !  The 
blood  which  now  forsakes  your  cheek,  and  rushes  to  your  heart,  young 
Lord,  is  impregnated  in  its  every  throb  with  that  curse.  It  only  demands 
a  Time,  a  Circumstance,  and  the  work  is  done,  the  hand  of  the  Son  is 
reddened  with  the  father's  blood. 

"  You  remember  the  Medal  which  you  tore  from  the  heart  of  Madeline  ? 
It  bears  a  cross,  a  name,  a  date.  1  Eola'  and  'November  the  Twelfth.' 
Can  you — dare  you  call  to  mind,  the  deeds  which  through  the  course  of 
centuries,  have  marked  that  fatal  day,  in  the  history  of  your  house? 
*  November  the  Twelfth,'  in  our  modern  language,  simply  means  '  Novem- 
ber Twenty-Third.'  On  that  day,  your  grandfather,  John  of  Lyndulfe, 
was  found  dead  in  the  park  of  his  ducal  mansion,  and  near  him,  the  man- 
gled carcase  of  his  eldest  son,  Ranulph-John.  What  does  this  mean  ?  It 
has  but  one  meaning;  you  are  a  brave  man,  read  it — Parricide." 

No  word  came  from  Reginald's  lips  ;  he  gazed  into  the  face  of  the 
speaker,  and  was  dumb. 

"  On  that  day,  Catherine  Conwell,  the  victim  in  place  of  your  mother, 
died  within  these  walls>  her  last  groan  mingling  with  the  cry  of  her  new- 
born child.    On  that  day  but  let  us  go  back  at  once  to  the  reign  of  the 

Eighth  Henry,  when  the  destinies  of  your  house  were  sown  in  the  luxuriant 
soil'of  Murder,  ******  and  Parricide.  It  was  in  the  year  1538,  that 
the  baptism  of  unnatural  crimes  first  descended  upon  your  Race.  It  was 
in  the  silence  of  night — after  a  day  spent  in  drunken  revelry — that  a 
Father  and  his  Sons  were  linked  together,  in  a  series  of  crimes,  whose 
blackness  might  make  the  Devils  weep ;  weep  for  shame,  at  the  thought, 
that  even  in  the  sublimity  of  Satanic  crime,  they  were  outstripped  by  this 
poor  creature,  Man.  Three  Lords  of  your  house  were  bound  together  in 
the  deeds  of  that  night;  one  of  those  Lords,  your  Ancestor.  Of  the 
nature  of  these  crimes,  I  cannot — dare  not  speak — but  they  took  place  on 
the  Twelfth  of  November.  A  year  passes  ;  and  one  of  the  Three, — 
the  Parricide,  on  the  anniversary  of  that  day,  glides  behind  the  chair  of 
his  wife,  whose  babe  is  sleeping  on  her  breast.  Then,  as  she  turns  her 
face  to  the  setting  sun,  as  the  babe  awakes,  and  toys  with  her  flowing  hair 
the  Parricide  lifts  the  dagger  

"  From  that  hour,  the  Race  of  Lyndulfe  has  been  accursed.  The  Head 
of  your  house,  whether  Baron  or  Duke, — he  that  wears  the  title  and  Ales 
the  domains  —  dies  by  the  hand  of  his  son.  Do  you  tremble  :  come,  this 
is  unmanly  !  Laugh,  my  Lord — you  are  witty — give  speech  to  those 
merry  jests,  which  even  now  flit  over  your  brain. — Dies  by  the  hand  of 
his  son,  either  by  accident  or  design,  and  from  this  curse  there  is  no  es- 
cape ;  for  it  is  not  the  work  of  an  Evil  Angel,  it  is  not  the  judgment  of  a 
blind  Fatality,  it  is  simply  in  your  blood,  transmitted  with  your  organi- 


1 


464  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

zation,  bequeathed  by  every  father  with  the  life  which  he  bestows  upon 
his  child" 

As  though  a  dark  truth  had  changed  his  whole  being,  Reginald,  with 
pallid  aspect  and  vacant  and  lustreless  gaze,  began  to  speak  in  a  hollow 
voice  : 

"  Yes,  yes, — one  day  while  wandering  in  the  park,  near  the  spot  where 
the  dead  bodies  of  the  old  Duke  and  his  son  were  found,  an  aged  peasant 

breathed  into  my  ear,  a  tradition  of  our  house  1  laughed  then,  but  I 

sfiudder  now.  I  remember  its  every  word.  '  The  Baron  of  Lyndu/fe, 
ivho  committed  these  crimes  ages  ago,  was  doomed  to  live  until  he  had 
expiated  his  guilt  by  sweeping  every  one  of  his  race  from  the  earth  ;  or 
until  he  ascertained  that  the  wife  ivhom  he  so  basely  slew,  was  innocent. 
From  the  lips  of  a  woman  descended  from  this  wife,  and  wearing  the 
Medal  which  he  coined  in  memory  of  his  Father  and  his  Wife— from  the 
lips  of  a  woman,  and  a  woman  only — can  he  obtain  the  word  which  will 
permit  him  to  die.  Until  that  word  is  pronounced,  he  is  doomed  to  live 
and  destroy?  These  were  the  words  of  the  old  peasant,  and  this  Demon, 
— the  embodied  Curse  of  our  race — lives  at  this  hour,  as  he  has  lived  for 
centuries.  Yes,  he  glides  by  us  in  the  sunshine ;  at  dead  of  night,  he 
stands  near  us  as  we  sleep,  and  breathes  the  pestilence  of  his  infernal  being 
into  our  souls.  And  I  saw  him,  two  years  ago — on  the  rock  which  stood 
near  the  wayside,  as  I  came  to  Wissahikon — even  now  his  words  ring  in 
my  ears." 

He  turned  and  gazed  upon  the  strange  man,  whose  words  had  stirred 
these  dark  thoughts  into  life. 

Rolof  Sener  crouched  upon  the  floor  ;  he  had  fallen  like  a  man  wounded 
by  a  pistol  shot;  he  lay  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands  and  his  limbs 
quivering  as  with  a  death-spasm. 

Reginald  attempted  to  raise  him,  but  in  vain.  His  struggles  were  like 
the  writhings  of  a  person  seized  with  epilepsy — his  hands  shook  with  an 
incessant  tremor ;  he  sunk  his  nails  into  the  boards,  and  uttered  a  low, 
faint  moan. 

Reginald  turned  his  face  to  the  light ;  it  was  the  visage  of  a  dead  man, 
the  features  rigid,  the  eyes  fixed  as  stone. 

And  the  young  Lord,  heir  to  the  fortunes  of  Lyndulfe,  stood  contem- 
plating this  inanimate  form,  with  a  look  of  vague  curiosity,  while  the  flick- 
ering light  shone  full  upon  those  motionless  eyeballs. 

"is  he  dead  ?"  he  faltered,  while  a  shudder  pervaded  his  veins— "Hah! 
He  breathes  again,  and  something  like  life  shines  in  his  eyes." 

«  And  so,  Madeline  was  not  of  your  blood,—"  were  the  first  words 
which  trembled  from  the  lips  of  Rolof,  as  he  looked  around  with  a  bewildered 
glance  :  "  Only  the  daughter  of  Poverty  and  Innocence  !  Hah  !  Is 't  you, 
Reginald?"  he  started  to  his  feet—"  Pardon  me.  I  have  been  subject  to 
these  attacks  from  childhood.    Some  wild  words  have  passed  between 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  405 

us, — it  is  over  now  — you  would  marry  Leola,  to  night  ?  It  is  well;  I 
will  be  your  friend.  The  Duke  comes  to  Wissahikon,  but  he  shall  not 
know  of  your  presence  here,  much  less  of  your  intended  marriage.' 

He  seized  Reginald's  hand  while  a  kindly — almost  paternal — smile 
stole  over  his  face. 

"You  have  seen  Leola  ?" 

"I  have  ;  her  father's  house  is  thronged  with  guests  from  the  city.  We 
met  not  an  hour  ago,  in  the  grove  which  skirts  his  place.  Something  was 
said  between  us  of  a  private  marriage,  to  night,  but  these  guests  may  re- 
cognize me  as  a  British  officer ;  I  have  no  other  dress  than  the  uniform 
which  I  wear.    Then  there  is  no  clergyman — " 

"  Go  to  !  These  guests  are  all  good  Tories  ;  stout  loyalists,  sworn  to 
the  king,  every  man  and  woman  of  them.  As  for  your  dress  and  the 
clergyman,  when  you  return  to  Sir  Ralph's  you  will  find  them  both  in  the 
care  of  one  person,  to  wit,  the  knave  Jacopo,  otherwise  known  as  the  Rev. 
Jacob  J  am  cjf." 

"  Jacopo  !" 

"Aye,  Jacopo;  'he  will  dress  you  for  the  wedding,  and  marry  you 
afterward." 

"  You  speak  in  mysteries — 

"  Is  he  not  clergyman  enough,  for  the  occasion  ?  Go  to,  Reginald  !  I 
read  your  eyes  ;  I  translate  your  heart  into  words.  Leola  is  a  fair  girl, 
beautiful  as  a  syren, — " 

"She  is  indeed  beautiful  !" 

"  That  tone  reveals  your  heart !  Beautiful  she  is,  without  a  doubt,  and 
her  form  might  lure  a  saint  into  the  madness  of  passion;  but  the  daughter 
of  a  Baronet  is  no  match  for  Reginald,  heir  to  the  Dukedom  of  Lyndulfe. 
Jacopo  is  a  clergyman — dost  comprehend,  my  child  ?  A  convenient 
clergyman,  whose  signature  to  your  marriage  parchments  may  one  day 
melt  into  air.  Go  to,  boy— I  am  your  best  friend.  I  serve  you  and  at 
the  same  time  rescue  your  House  from  the  shame  of  an  ill-assorted 
marriage." 

With  downcast  eyes  and  averted  face,  Reginald  listened,  and  after  a 
pause  replied— 

"  Yes,  I  remember,  Jacopo  is  a  clergyman.  Did  he  not  take  orders 
last  year  ?  But  1  must  away  ;  even  now  Leola  looks  for  me,  and  ah  ! 
1  had  well  nigh  forgotten;  Paul  Ardenheim  awaits  me  at  the  Blasted 
Pine." 

"  Paul  Ardenheim  ?  A  student-like  youth,  who  strangely  disappeared 
from  Wissahikon,  two  years  ago  ?" 

"  A  noble  fellow  :'  every  inch  a  man.  He  is  my  friend.  He  went  with 
me  to  England  ;  in  a  word,  we  are  as  Brothers." 

"  He  is  rich  ?" 
While  I  have  a  guinea."  SO 


466  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

"  A  dependent  then,  upon  your  bounty  ?" 

"  No  !    Paul  would  blush  at  the  idea,  with  the  true  instinct  of  a  high- 
minded  and  honorable  man." 
"  And  yet  he  is  poor  !' 

"But  his  heart  is  true,  his  arm  brave!  One  night,  I  was  betet  by 
assassins — he  saved  me  at  the  hazard  of  his  own  life.  It  was  a  generous 
deed,  but  it  left  a  scar  upon  his  forehead.  Paul  will  carry  that  scar  to  the 
grave  ;  and  while  it  endures  I  am  his  friend." 

"Nobly  spoken!  Worthy  of  your  race.  Go,  Reginald,  Leola  awaits 
you." 

Reginald  grasped  Rolof's  hand,  some  whispered  words  passed  between 
them,  and  then  he  hurried  from  that  charnel-room,  as  the  light  was  llick- 
ering  in  the  socket.  As  if  recalled  by  a  sudden  thought,  he  turned  upon 
the  threshold,  and  exclaimed  — 

"  This  Son  of  Gaspard  Michael — was  that  also  a  dream?" 

"To-night,"  replied  Rolof,  "I  will  tell  you  all.  We  meet  at  the 
wedding." 

With  a  light  heart  and  a  glad  step,  Reginald  turned  away  from  the 
gloomy  chamber,  leaving  the  skeleton  of  Catherine  Conweli  and  the 
memory  of  Madeline  to  silence  and  the  grave,  as  he  hurried  onward,  with 
the  name  of  Leola  on  his  lips. 

Rolof  Sener  closed  the  door,  and  turned  him  once  again  to  the  memo- 
ries of  that  silent  room. 

The  light  was  burning  fast  into  the  socket,  and  its  wan  and  uncertain 
glare  gave  his  face  a  wild  and  haggard  look. 

He  stood  perfectly  motionless,  his  folded  arms  and  vacant  eyes  and  fixed 
features,  giving  him  the  appearance  of  some  quaint  effigy,  on  an  ancient 
tomb,  rather  than  a  living  man. 

"  Washington  comes  to  Wissahikon,  and  comes  to  receive  a  Crown  ! 
The  purity  of  his  soul,  the  sublimity  of  his  patriotism  will  be  tried — it 
would  bring  a  smile  to  a  cheek  of  marble — this  Hero  of  an  hour  will 
attempt  to  repeat  the  old  story  of  Oliver  Cromwell !  Should  he  prove 
true  to  his  mission — what  then  ?  Must  he  still  be  surrendered,  blinded 
and  bound,  into  the  hands  of  the  Royalists  ? 

"  Twelve  o'clock  to-night  will  decide  it  all. 

"  The  Duke,  too,  conies  to  Wissahikon,  comes  to  secure  his  prisoner, 
an(j — to  confront  the  Son  of  Gaspard  Michael.  Well,  well,  the  Duke  wal 
ever  a  cautious  man,  full  of  '  business  tact,'  and  attentive  to  the  main 
chance" — he  smiled. 

"  Reginald  goes  to  meet  Leola,  with  all  the  fire  of  his  race  in  his  eye, 
and  solemn  vows  on  his  lips,  vows,  the  more  to  be  relied  upon,  when  we 
remember  that — Jacopo  is  to  be  clergyman.  'Tis  a  brave  youth,  this 
Reginald  ! 

-Paul  Ardendeim  !  ********* 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON 


467 


M  And  thus,  as  the  clouds,  toward  the  close  of  a  warm  summer  day, 
hasten  from  'every  point  in  the  sky,  and  at  the  hour  of  sunset  unite 
in  thunder  and  lightning,  so  they  gather  all — these  men  and  women, — and 
before  the  morrow  comes,  there  will  be  a  storm. 

«  And  I  " 

The  light  flashed  its  last,  and  darkness  enshrouded  the  form  of  Rolof 
Sener. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-NINTH 

"  SATAN,  THE  BEAUTIFUL  !" 

u  Beautiful  Satan  !"  muttered  Paul,  as  he  felt  the  clasp  of  that  warm 
hand,  which  led  him  gently  into  the  shadows  of  the  wood,  and  then  by 
an  uncertain  ray  of  moonlight,  he  saw  the  white  robe,  gleaming  through 
the  twilight,  while  the  waving  hair,  swept  his  fevered  brow. 

His  brain  was  whirling,  as  in  the  mazes  of  an  intoxicating  dream.  He 
heard  a  low  and  gentle  voice  whisper,  44  Come  !"  but  the  face  was  turned 
away.  He  followed  the  Unknown  in  silence,  while  the  blood  bounded  in 
every  vein. 

Through  the  woods,  and  down  into  the  shadows  of  a  glen,  up  the  slope 
of  a  hill,  overgrown  with  laurel,  the  hand  led  him,  and  at  last  emerging 
into  the  moonlight — it  was  wan,  pale  and  spectral — he  beheld  a  scene 
which  broke  upon  him  like  a  vision  from  fairy  land. 

Only  a  moment  he  paused,  to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  the  sight,  and 
then  the  hand  of  the  unknown  urged  him  around. 

Let  us  behold  that  picture  of  a  moment. 

He  stood  on  the  verge  of  a  smooth  and  grassy  lawn,  bordered  by  noble 
pines,  and  with  a  mansion,  lighted  in  every  window,  shining  like  a  fune- 
ral pyre  through  the  half-twilight.  Bells  of  radiance  gushed  from  the 
windows  of  that  mansion  of  dark  stone  walls,  and  high  roof,  crowned 
with  a  tower ;  and  the  lawn,  the  gloomy  pines,  were  touched  with  rays  of 
living  light. 

It  was  the  mansion  of  Isaac  Van  Behme,  the  thought  rushed  over  the 
mind  of  Paul,  but  no  !    This  mansion  so  gay  with  lights  in  every  case- 
ment, this  lawn  crowded  with  marble  images,  which  looked  like  ghosts 
in  the  mingled  radiance,  did  not  in  the  teast  resemble  the  isolated  home 
i    of  Isaac  Van  Behme,  as  he  saw  it  on  the  fatal  night. 


468  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

Then  the  ground  was  wrapped  in  snow,  and  the  dark  evergreens,  waved 
their  gloomy  branches,  about  the  desolate  mansion,  like  mourners  attired 
in  funeral  robes  and  sorrowing  for  the  dead. 

But  now,  the  lawn,  overarched  by  the  pure  blue  sky,  and  bordered  by 
the  tall  pines,  was  crowded  by  throngs  of  men  and  women, — or  ladies  and 
gentlemen — whose  gay  costumes  shone  in  the  light,  and  gave  a  festival 
appearance  to  the  scene.  The  quaint  attire  of  the  olden  time — full  bot- 
tomed wigs  for  the  men,  and  head  dresses  like  the  tower  of  Babel  for  the 
women,  coats  with  wide  skirts,  and  gowns  resembling  a  peacock's  train 
— in  all  its  varied  and  ingenious  details  Music  too,  came  in  bursts  of  me- 
lody, softened  by  distance  and  filling  the  deep  sad  sky,  with  a  low  mur- 
mur, like  the  lull  of  a  distant  fountain. 

While  Paul  at  a  glance  beheld  this  scene,  the  Unknown  was  half-con- 
cealed from  sight  among  the  shadows  of  the  path.  The  hand  still  pressed 
his  own,  and  sent  its  magnetic  thrill  to  his  heart,  but  the  form  clad  in  the 
white  robe,  was  shrouded  by  the  foliage,  and  the  face  was  lost  in  the  folds 
of  a  veil,  whose  snowy  lace  fluttered  around  the  raven  tresses,  like  a  cloud 
of  pale  and  impalpable  mist. 

They  stood,  Paul  and  the  Unknown  at  the  entrance  of  a  secluded  walk, 
which  extended  in  a  magnificent  perspective,  until  it  was  lost  in  the  sha- 
dows. A  line  of  towering  pines,  separated  the  walk  from  the  lawn,  and 
between  their  huge  trunks,  the  light  rushed  in  upon  the  gloom,  in  fitful 
rays,  while  their  branches,  bending  to  the  evening  air,  formed  a  canopy 
overhead. 

It  was  the  walk  of  all  walks  in  the  world, — thus  on  the  very  verge  of 
light  and  life,  and  yet  separated  from  the  gay  scene,  set  apart,  as  a  haunt 
sacred  to  solitude — for  a  scene  of  love,  when  the  heart  talks  with  the  si- 
lent pressure  of  the  hand,  and  the  low  whispers  of  the  lovers,  melt  into 
noiseless  kisses. 

Along  this  walk,  now  in  light,  now  in  shadow,  Paul  was  led  by  the 
Unknown  ;  he  did  not  seem  to  walk  on  the  solid  earth,  but  to  tread  in  air, 
trees,  mansion  and  lights,  were  whirling  round  him  in  a  mad  dance,  while 
a  vision  of  a  beautiful  form,  and  dark  eyes,  flashing  through  a  snowy  veil, 
floated  before  him  on  waves  of  golden  mist. 

"Who  art  thou  !"  whispered  Paul — "  Am  I  awake  !  Am  I  dreaming  ? 
Or  is  this  a  delusion  invented  by  Satan,  to  cheat  me  into  my  ruin  ?  Speak ! 
Who  art  thou  ?  There's  madness  in  thy  touch — thine  eyes  .tear  the  Soul 
from  my  brain — I  am  afraid  of  this  wild  loveliness  !" 

The  tresses  floated  on  the  light,  the  head  was  turned,  and  a  low  voice 
breathed  his  name  through  the  stillness,  and  whispered  "Come  !" 

The  walk  at  last  came  to  an  end,  and  the  Unknown  plunged  into 
the  thick  shrubbery,  which  grew  in  fragrant  and  leafy  luxuriance  along 
the  western  wall  of  the  mansion.  All  was  dark  and  noiseless  here  ;  while 
the  front  was  blazing  from  every  window  as  with  a  festival  illumination, 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


469 


tfau  wall,  silent  and  gloomy,  was  overrun  by  a  leafy  vine,  which  clung 
along  the  eaves  of  the  roof,  and  flung  its  festoons  quivering  in  the  air. 

Paul  was  alone  in  the  gloom  with  the  Unknown;  he  could  not  see  the 
sky,  nor  did  a  single  ray  shine  through  the  thickly- woven  foliage,  ile 
could  not  see  the  beautiful  shape,  whose  bosom  heaved  above  the  loosened 
robe,  nor  the  snowy  veil  which  covered  her  face  and  midnight  hair.  But 
the  soft, — gentle — yet  maddening  pressure  of  the  hand,  assured  him  of 
her  presence,  and  her  breath  mingled  with  his  own,  as  her  lips  pressed 
his  mouth,  murmuring — 

"  Paul,  I  love  thee!" 

Very  simple  words,  you  say,  yet  many  a  time,  have  words  as  trite  and 
plain,  been  warmed  into  overwhelming  eloquence,  by  a  kiss  from  young 
lips,  lips  rife  with  youth  and  passion,  lips  throbbing  madness  into  the  lips 
they  press  ! 

Among  the  shrubbery  appeared  a  narrow  door,  sunken  in  the  gloomy 
wall,  and  overhung  by  the  tendrils  of  the  creeping  vine.  A  white  hand 
was  extended — the  door  opened  inward,  or  receded  into  the  wall — the 
entrance  of  a  stairway  was  visible 

"  Ah  !  I  remember  !  Here  on  the  last  night — "  exclaimed  Paul,  as  his 
confused  ideas  began  to  condense  themselves  into  shape. 

"  Come  !"  cried  the  Unknown,  and  Paul  sprang  over  the  threshold — 
the  door  was  closed, — and  in  the  darkness,  he  was  led  upward  by  that 
gentle  hand. 

Suddenly  a  door  was  opened,  at  the  head  of  the  narrow  stairway,  and 
Paul's  face  was  bathed  in  light. 

" 1  remember  !"  he  muttered — "  It  is  the  door  of  the  mirror,  through 
which  I  passed  on  the — " 

He  stepped  over  the  threshold,  the  mirror  glided  back  into  its  place, 
and  Paul  looked  around,  with  the  bewildered  gaze  of  a  man  but  half 
awakened  from  some  luxurious  dream. 

It  was  many  moments  before  he  recovered  his  entire  consciousness,  and 
gazed  about  him  with  a  steadfast  eye. 

A.  soft,  voluptuous  light  prevailed  throughout  that  spacious  chamber. 
Curtains  of  lace,  resembling  wreaths  of  floating  mist,  trembled  along  the 
solitary  window,  and  gave  entrance  to  the  breeze  and  star-beam  of  the 
glorious  night.  The  lofty  walls  were  animate^  and  impassioned  with 
many  a  beautiful  form,  that  seemed  to  live,  to  breathe  on  canvass,  and 
from  the  shadows  of  a  niche,  sunken  in  each  corner  of  the  room,  a  pale 
marble  image  stole  gently  on  the  sight.  The  floor  returned  no  echo  to 
the  tread  ;  it  was  covered  with  a  velvet  carpet,  whose  warm  dyes,  sub- 
dued by  the  dim  light,  harmonized  with  the  luxurious  atmosphere  of  the 
chamber. 

There  was  a  mirror  too,  reaching  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor — it  was 


470  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

the  secret  door  of  the  secret  staircase — and  Paul  as  he  looked  upon  it, 
felt  the  blood  mount  to  his  cheek. 

u  It  is  the  chamber  !"  the  thought  flashed  over  him  ; — the  chamber  in 
which  the  Wizard's  daughter  first  dawned  upon  his  eyes. 

But  where  was  the  gloomy  atmosphere  which  had  once  invested  the 
place,  where  the  dark  hangings,  and  dusky  floor  and  sombre  couch  ? 

Paul  turned,  and  in  the  recess,  where  the  bed  with  the  dark  hangings, 
once  had  stood,  appeared  a  snow-white  couch,  with  a  canopy  of  satin, 
white  as  snow,  arching  above  its  spotless  coverlet. 

It  was  in  a  word,  the  luxurious  chamber  of  a  Woman,  at  once  refined, 
beautiful  and  voluptuous. 

"  Do  you  not  know  me,  Paul  ?" 

That  voice  breathed  of  the  days  of  old ! 

She  stood  before  him,  like  the  Spirit  of  the  scene,  gathering  her  flow- 
ing robe  over  her  breast,  while  her  hair  rested  in  midnight  waves  upon 
her  half-uncovered  shoulders.  Not  a  Spirit  cold  or  pale,  or  spectra],  by 
any  means,  nor  a  form  of  marble  enshrining  the  idea  of  Beauty,  as  pas- 
sionless as  ice. 

It  was  a  proud  spirit  whose  fast  heaving  bosom,  spoke  of  the  impetuous 
blood  ;  whose  large  eyes,  veiled  in  the  shadow  of  the  long  lashes,  gleamed 
with  the  moist  light  of  passion  in  its  fullness,  and  love  in  its  most  bewitch- 
ing langour.  There  was  a  rose  blooming  on  each  brown  cheek;  an  ivory 
line,  gleamed  through  the  parted  lips,  and  on  the  brow  so  pale  and  elo- 
quent, a  Thought  was  struggling  into  life.  It  was  not  the  Thought  born 
of  a  love,  calm  and  tranquil  as  the  stars,  but  a  Thought  fiery  and  impet- 
uous, as  the  blood  which  was  bloom  on  her  lips  and  cheek. 

Was  it  the  form  of  a  Maiden,  just  ripening  into  the  consciousness  of 
her  being  ? 

It  was  the  form  of  a  Woman,  in  the  first  flush  of  her  matured  love- 
liness ;  a  woman  whose  shape  was  only  beautiful,  because  its  outlines 
mingling  grace,  with  warm  voluptuous  loveliness,  presented  the  incarna- 
tion of  a  Soul,  lofty  in  its  ambition,  boundless  in  its  passion,  and — it  may 
be — remorseless  in  its  revenge. 

And  before  this  beautiful  shape,  clad  as  much  in  those  dark  tresses,  as 
in  the  loosely  flowing  robe,  stood  the  bewildered  man,  whose  dark  attire, 
displaying  a  bold,  a  muscular  form,  by  no  means  harmonized  with  the 
luxurious  hues  of  the  dim-lighted  chamber. 

His  pale  brow,  relieved  by  his  dark  brown  hair,  his  boldly  defined  fea- 
tures shadowed  by  an  inexpressible  melancholy,  his  eyes — so  deep,  so 
clear,  so  full  of  wondering  light — presented  a  picture  which  was  strongly 
contrasted  with  the  warm  countenance  of  the  beautiful  woman. 

"  It  is  no  vision  then,"  he  said  with  an  absorbing  look,  and  a  voice,  that 
rung  bold  and  deep  upon  the  silence  of  the  chamber—"  You  are  before 
me,  once  more — living— beautiful  as  when  I  first  beheld  you  in  this  room  ! 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


471 


0  much  more  lovely,  0  wondrously  beautiful !  And  as  I  gaze  into  your 
eyes,  there  is  no  longer  a  soul  left  within  my  bosom,  I  look  and  I  am  lost, 
for  my  being  is  at  once  mingled  and  dissolved  in  yours." 

He  said  no  more,  but  looked  into  her  half-veiled  eyes,  with  a  long  un- 
changing gaze. 

"  Lost,  Paul  ?"  she  said — "  Do  you  fear  me  ?  Am  I  then  hideous  in 
your  eyes  ?" 

Hideous  !  She  came  gently  to  him,  and  laid  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  breathed  upon  his  cheek.  Hideous  !  Her  eyes  hazy  with 
liquid  light  were  looking  into  his  own — her  breast  was  near  to  his  heart, 
thrilling  his  every  nerve  with  its  impetuous  throb.  Hideous  !  Her  fingers 
trembled  gently  through  his  clustering  hair;  her  tresses,  floated  over  his 
hands;  he  was  wrapt  and  lost  in  the  atmosphere  of  her  bewitching  love- 
liness. 

"And  you  were  lost  to  me  !"  she  whispered — "  Little  did  I  dream, 
when  I  wandered  forth  into  the  wood,  an  hour  ago,  that  the  next  hour, 
would  bring  to  me,  a  moment  like  this  !" 

Have  a  care  brave  Paul !  Remember  the  beautiful  Tempter,  who  mad- 
dened you,  until  the  oath  was  broken,  and  the  Sealed  Chamber  profaned — 
remember  the  words  of  the  old  man,  whose  forehead  felt  your  sacreligous 
blow — remember  Monk  of  Wissahikon,  the  solemn  Destiny  which  cuts 
you  off  from  all  ties  of  friendship  or  of  love,  from  all  sympathy  with  the 
hopes  and  ambitions  of  common  men. 

Remember  

Paul  felt  his  knees  bend  beneath  him,  and  in  a  moment,  he  looked  up 
and  saw  that  beautiful  face,  glowing  over  him,  while  his  upraised  arms, 
encircled  that  voluptuous  shape,  with  a  quivering  embrace. 

It  was  not  love,  nor  passion,  but  madness. 

"Beautiful  Satan!"  he  cried — for  his  senses  were  wild  and  wandering 
—  his  blood  was  molten  flame  again,  as  on  the  fatal  night — "Tempt  me  to 
my  ruin,  and  I  will  give  my  soul  to  thee  !  for  thee  I  crossed  the  Sealed 
Chamber,  for  thee  I  dashed  my  father's  gray  hairs  into  dust,  for  thee  I 
became  as  Cain,  a  wanderer  upon  the  earth,  with  a  mark  upon  my  brow, 
that  scared  even  the  outcast  and  the  felon  from  my  path.  Look  !  I  am 
thine  again  !" 

And  he  bowed  his  head  upon  her  throbbing  breast,  even  as  he  knelt  at 
her  feet,  and  girdled  her  in  his  arms,  and  wept  aloud,  for  there  was  De- 
spair in  his  Love,  a  bitterness  like  the  Death  of  a  Soul,  in  his  delirious 
transport. 

Woe— woe — to  Paul  the  Monk  of  Wissahikon. 

He  raised  his  face  —  a  Hope  had  broken  in  upon  his  soul. 

"  Beautiful  Spirit !"  cried  Paul — "  Be  merciful !  Do  not  tempt  me 
again  to  my  Despair  !" 


472 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"Tempt  you  to  your  despair !"  she  whispered,  as  her  form  was  girdled 
in  his  trembling  arms,  "  You  are  dreaming  Paul !" 

0  the  wild  beauty  of  her  face,  as  she  lifted  her  arms,  and  swept  aside 
her  raven  hair,  while  her  eyes,  dilating  with  an  irresistable  fascination, 
shone  steadily  upon  him,  and  her  voice — softened  to  a  whisper — came  to 
his  ear,  like  the  voice  of  his  own  heart,  the  very  accents  of  his  Destiny. 

"  Do  not  tempt  me  again  to  my  despair,"  he  wildly  cried,  unable  to 
turn  his  gaze  from  the  impassioned  beauty  of  her  face — "  1  hear  your  voice 
again,  and  all  is  madness  in  my  veins.  It  was  that  voice,  which  tempted 
me,  on  the  fatal  night,  the  night  which  is  graven  into  my  soul,  in  charac- 
ters of  deathless  Remorse.  You  remember!  While  Catharine  clung  to 
my  knees,  you  whispered  in  my  ear,  and  I  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
Sealed  Chamber,  never  to  know  peace  or  rest  again.    You  remember — " 

"  The  Sealed  Chamber  !"  echoed  the  beautiful  woman,  as  her  robes, 
floating  so  loosely  about  her  voluptuous  shape,  could  not  hide  the  sudden 
swell  of  her  impetuous  bosom.  "  I  do  remember,  Paul.  Ah,  how  pale 
and  terrible  you  looked,  when  you  came  forth  from  that  gloomy  chamber. 
No  word  for  me,  not  even  a  look  !  And  when  I  saw  you  last,  you  were 
near  the  end  of  the  corridor,  and  your  father  come  trembling  from  his 
room,  and—" 

"  I  struck  him  to  the  earth — "  Paul's  voice  was  faint  and  broken,  his 
face  clouded  with  an  unutterable  Remorse—"  With  this  hand  I  smote  his 
gray  hairs." 

He  was  silent — his  head  sank  on  his  breast,  and  as  if  in  mockery  of  his 
woe,  a  burst  of  music,  from  the  lighted  lawn,  pealed  merrily  through  the 
window. 

She  gazed  upon  the  kneeling  man,  and  saw  his  form,  writhe  at  her  feet, 
with  an  agony  too  deep  for  a  murmur  or  a  tear.  His  hands  withdrawn 
from  her  waist,  supported  his  bended  head,  but  she  placed  her  hands  upon 
his  dark  hair,  and  leaning  over  him,  suffered  her  tresses  to  enfold  him, 
like  a  veil. 

"Paul,"  she  whispered,  "I  love  thee.  Would  die  for  thee^for  thee, 
tempt  ruin  and  despair !" 

Slowly  he  raised  his  face,  and  saw  her  face  so  near  him,  that  their  lips 
almost  met.  Her  eyes  were  shining  into  his  own ;  her  breath  fanned  his 
cheek  ;  all  the  beauty  of  her  countenance,  glowing  into  the  life  of  passion, 
overwhelmed  his  gaze. 

"Come,"  she  cried,  or  no  !  she  said  it  in  a  voice  so  low,  that  her  lips 
did  not  seem  to  speak,  but  her  soul — "  Come  !  Let  us  talk  of  other  days. 
Nay  let  us  talk  of  the  night  when  first  we  met,  here  in  this  chamber — Do 
you  remember  it  Paul?  The  history  of  our  love  is  brief,  very  brief  when 
measured  by  time,  but  in  eternity  when  measured  by  our  thoughts.  Come, 
Paul  let  us  talk  of  the  olden  time !" 

It  seemed  to  him,  that  he  could  kneel  forever  there,  bathed  in  the 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  473 

brightness  of  her  gaze — wrapt  in  her  look,  her  accent — enfolded  in  her 
midnight  hair. 

He  could  not  answer  her ;  his  heart  was  full ;  his  eyes  began  to  blaze, 
not  with  the  serene  light  of  thought,  but  with  the  madness  of  passion — 
passion,  such  as  stirs  the  heart,  which  has  not  leadened  its  pulsations, 
with  the  loves  and  hates  of  common  life. 

As  the  pallor  of  his  face,  vanished  before  a  sudden  warmth — as  cheek 
and  lip  and  brow,  glowed  in  a  moment,  into  a  new  life — he  presented  an 
image  of  manly,  and  impassioned  beauty 

"And  the  voice  spoke  my  name  before  we  met,"  he  whispered,  "And 
told  you  that  one  day,  we  should  mingle  our  destinies,  and  become 
one  soul." 

"  The  Voice  !"  she  echoed — "Ah  !   I  remember  !    That  Voice  which  , 
spoke  to  me,  from  the  air,  and  guided  my  life  with  its  words.    But  it  is 
gone,  now,  Paul.    I  have  never  heard  it  since  that  night.    But  the  voice 
which  thrills  me  now,  and  melts  on  my  soul,  as  the  voice  of  my  Destiny, 
speaks  from  your  lips,  Paul  from  yours  !" 

She  bent  near  and  nearer  to  him  as  he  knelt  at  her  feet,  and  his  face 
and  hers  were  lost  in  the  mazes  of  her  flowing  hair 

The  mirror  reflected  those  forms,  palpitating  with  youth  and  passion, 
and  centred  among  the  images  of  that  luxurious  chamber. 

Was  it  the  echo  of  a  kiss  that  broke  upon  the  breathless  quiet,  or  the 
echo  of  voices,  mingling  their  accents,  as  the  lips — warm  with  the  life  of 
youth — clung  together? 

"  Paul !"  she  cried,  raising  her  radiant  face,  as  his  countenance  stamped 
with  the  frenzy  of  passion  was  revealed — "  Now  tell  me  the  secret  of  that 
well-remembered  night.    Tell  me  the  secret  of  the  Sealed  Chamber." 

His  hands  fell  from  her  waist ;  he  was  pale  and  cold  again.  Where 
but  a  moment  before  had  been  a  man  fired  by  passion,  was  now,  only  a 
kneeling  form,  clad  in  funeral  black,  with  a  face  livid  as  Death. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  turned  his  face  away. 

"  There — "  he  faltered,  his  face  averted,  as  he  extended  his  hand  toward 
her,  "  There — Read  it  all — and  do  not  let  it  work  such  madness  in  your 
soul,  as  it  has  in  mine." 

It  was  a  Manuscript  which  he  had  taken  from  his  breast,  where  it  had 
been  concealed  among  the  folds  of  his  dress,  close  to  his  heart. 

Her  hand  trembled  as  she  took  the  Manuscript.  One  gaze  toward  his 
form,  as  with  his  face  turned  away,  he  stood  voiceless  and  immovable 
before  her,  and  she  opened  those  dark  pages  stained  with  the  blackness 
of  dead  centuries. 

She  read,  her  bosom  slowly  heaving,  her  eye  gradually  dilating,  with 
the  light  of  a  wild  yet  fearful  curiosity. 
Not  once  did  he  turn  and  look  upon  her. 

She  read,  and  a  smile  gleamed  over  her  features, — gleamed  from  the 


474  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

lips  to  the  eyes- — only  to  die  again,  in  an  expression  of  vague  and  apathe. 
tic  horror.  Her  breath  came  tremulous  and  broken;  she  crushed  the 
Manuscript  in  her  fingers,  and  gazed  around  with  a  look  of  fright  and  ter- 
ror, and  then — while  silent  and  statue-like  he  stood  near  her — she  fixed 
her  eyes  upon  its  dark  pages  once  more. 

Her  beautiful  face  lost  its  hues  of  youth  and  passion  ;  the  hair  which 
streamed  over  her  shoulders,  swept  a  forehead,  white  as  marble,  and  damp 
with  beaded  moisture. 


CHAPTER  FORTY. 


THE  MANUSCRIPT  OF   THE  SEALED  CHAMBER. 


"To  night — so  ran  the  quaint  history  of  Monk  Eustace — we  will  look 
upon  the  double-crime,  whose  unnatural  gilt,  forever  clouded  the  House 
of  Mount  Sepulchre.* 

It  is  a  spacious  chamber,  with  a  ceiling  like  a  dome,  and  a  lloor  paved 
with  alternate  slabs  of  black  and  white  marble.  Four  pillars  adorned 
with  fantastic  curvings  support  this  dome,  and  in  front  of  each  pillar 
stands  the  figure  of  a  Crusader,  in  the  armor  of  Richard  the  Lion  heart, 
with  a  red  cross  painted  upon  his  breast 

The  walls  are  hung  with  purple  tapestry,  on  which  are  emblazoned  the 
deeds  of  Richard  the  Lion  Heart  and  his  knights  ;  here  a  picture  of  the 
shores  of  Jordan  ;  there,  a  fray  with  Saladin  ;  a  little  farther  On,  King 
Richard  standing  with  hands  clasped  on  his  sword,  while  he  gazes  on  the 
Holy  Sepulchre.  Therefore,  this  chamber,  illuminated  by  lamps  of  per- 
fumed oil,  is  called  the  Hall  of  Palestine. 

In  the  centre  of  the  place,  around  a  board  groaning  under  the  weight 
of  viands  and  beakers,  behold  Lord  Harry  and  his  brave  Twenty-Four. 

He  looks,  right  noble  in  his  attire  of  blue  velvet,  set  off  with  diamond 
stars  and  chains  of  gold.  His  head  is  proudly  placed  upon  his  broad 
shoulders,  and  his  long  golden  hair  and  brown  beard  slightly  tinged  with 
red,  gave  a  noble  appearance  to  his  bold  features  and  florid  complexion. 

One  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  the  other  lifted  a  well-filled  gob- 


*  The  reader  will  perceive  that  this  is  a  continuation  of  that  -part  of  the  Manu- 
script contained  in  the  Prologue  at  the  commencement  of  this  work. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


475 


let,  as  he  glances  round  the  table — now,  looking  upon  the  wreck  of  beef, 
ham,  capon,  and  all  imaginable  pasiries,  defended  by  a  solemn  array  of 
bottles  and  goblets,  now,  gazing  into  the  faces  of  his  gallant  Twenty- 
Four. 

Vain  were  the  power  of  language  to  picture  the  contrasted  expressions 
of  their  various  faces — the  costumes  of  every  fashion  and  device — the 
conversation  now  echoing  in  discordant  chorus,  now  broken  by  peals  of 
laughter. 

Lord  Harry  glanced  upon  his  company,  and  arranged  himself  more 
comfortably  in  his  gilded  chair,  as  he  surveyed  all  these  indications  of  pomp 
and  state,  and  murmured  as  the  cup  pressed  his  lips, 

"  It  is  a  right  good  thing  to  be  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre  !" 

It  cannot  be  denied,  that  it  was  a  scene  of  luxurious  display,  worthy  of 
an  Eastern  Sultan. 

Around  the  board  were  ranged  a  band  of  attendant  servitors,  clad  in 
silks  and  laces,  their  eyes  anticipating  the  commands  of  Lord  Harry  and 
his  Twenty-Four. 

The  curtains  drawn  aside  toward  the  north,  revealed  a  glimpse  of  a 
garden,  full  of  rare  plants  and  flowers,  whose  perfume  imbued  the  atmos- 
phere, while  many  fountains  glittered  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun  through 
the  thickly  clustered  foliage. 

"  A  health  to  our  King !"  cried  Lord  Harry,  extending  his  goblet  to  the 
Servitor  by  his  side — "  A  health  to  the  brave  Harry  of  England  and 
France,  the  Eighth  of  his  name  !" 

Goblets  were  raised  and  drained  with  many  a  loyal  shout. 

"  To  the  King,  and  confusion  to  Luther  !"  cried  a  fair  faced  Knight, 
whose  youthful  lip  was  scarce  burdened  by  a  shadow  of  manhood's  down. 

"  To  the  Spanish  woman  —  confusion  !"  shouted  a  grim  old  Knight, 
whose  cheeks  bore  traces  of  the  civil  wars. 

"  To  the  Devil  with  the  Pope  and  all  enemies  of  our  King !"  ejaculated 
a  courtly  Lord,  whose  eyes  were  affected  with  an  inordinate  habit  of 
winking. 

Baron  Henry,  like  a  true  knight  and  sworn  Courtier  as  he  was,  emptied 
his  goblet,  and  exclaimed  in  a  joyous  tone — 

"  Vassals  !  More  wine  !  We'll  have  a  merry  bout  of  it  together,  and 
hark  ye,  let  our  steeds  be  saddled  for  a  merry  ride  by  torchlight  after  our 
feast  is  over !" 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  heavy  foot-tramp  by  the  side  of  the  noble 
Lord,  and  a  hoarse  voice  exclaimed,  with  an  ac  cent  of  rude  courtesy — 
"  Noble  Sir — the  Italian  craves  a  word  with  your  Lordship — " 
"  Hah  !    Iron  Dickon  is't  thou  ?" 

Turning  suddenly  he  beheld  Iron  Dickon  standing  by  his  side.  Iron 
Dickon  was  a  stalwart  retainer,  who  stood  some  six  feet  seven  inches  in 
his  boots,  and  could  fell  an  ox  with  a  blow  of  his  fist.  He  looked,  indeed, 


476 


PAUx.  ARDENHEIM;  OR 


like  Samson  of-  old,  encased  in  a  costume  of  deer's  hide,  defended  by 
plates  of  iron  armor,  with  a  dagger  in  his  girdle,  and  a  sword  by  his  side. 
His  features  were  coarse,  his  head  somewhat  large  even  for  his  large  bodv, 
and  there  was  a  sort  of  settled  vacancy  in  his  large  gray  eyes,  almost  hid- 
den by  his  thick  eyebrows. 

He  was  a  rude  fellow,  and  his  appearance  in  this  scene  of  wine  and 
laughter  was  almost  as  welcome  as  a  death's  head  at  a  marriage  festival. 

In  what  capacity  the  stout  Dickon  served  the  young  Lord,  few  persons 
could  guess ;  he  could  not  have  been  attached  to  him  merely  as  a  common 
soldier,  for  they  were  too  familiar,  too  often  closeted  together  for  that. 
And  yet,  he  was  no  knight ;  he  was  called  simply  Iron  Dickon,  and  ever 
since  his  sudden  appearance,  some  years  before, — ere  the  old  Baron  was 
stricken  blind — he  was  regarded  by  the  other  servitors  of  the  castle  with 
a  feeling  akin  to  fear. 

A  murmur  of  surprise,  mingled  with  something  like  anger  or  loathing 
was  echoed  by  the  brave  Twenty- Four,  as  they  beheld  the  gloomy  re- 
tainer standing  beside  the  young  Lord. 

"  Noble  Sir — the  Italian  craves  a  word  with  your  Lordship — "  repeated 
Iron  Dickon,  scowling  gloomily  at  the  festival  array. 

"  The  Italian  ?    Let  him  wait  our  pleasure — " 

Iron  Dickon  drew  nearer  to  his  master's  side,  and  whispered  — 

H  But  he  will  not  wait.  '  Tell  thy  master  I  must  see  him  this  moment, 
or  I  depart  from  the  Castle  without  further  words.'  This  was  the 
message  noble  sir,  which  he  gave  me — " 

"Is  it  so?  He  shall  see  me  by  the  Rood — "  cried  the  Baron,  starting 
from  his  chair,  and  flinging  his  goblet  on  the  table — "  Woe  to  the  knave 
if  he  but  thinks  to  cross  my  humor.  Gentles — "  he  added,  turning  to  the 
Twenty-Four — "  It  is  but  a  matter  of  a  moment's  absence.  I  will  be 
with  you  ere  a  goblet  is  drained." 

He  turned  to  the  door  of  the  Hall,  assuming  his  cap,  which  was 
crowned  with  white  plumes,  bound  together  by  a  single  jewel  which 
glittered  like  a  coal. 

"  Dickon,  I  say — where  is  this  knave  V*  whispered  the  young  Lord,  as  he 
drew  near  the  door. 

"  In  the  Tower  of  Saladin,  your  Lordship,"  whispered  Dickon. 

Was  it  only  a  fancy,  or  did  the  Baron  of  Mount  Sepulchre  change  color  ? 

"  The  tower  of  Saladin  ?"  he  echoed—"  Knave  !  How  came  he  there  ? 
Are  there  no  other  rooms  in  Mount  Sepulchre,  but  you  must  put  this 
stranger  in  the  tower  of  Saladin  V 

"  There  are  many  rooms  in  the  tower  of  Saladin,"  bluntly  replied  the 
vassal,  "on  the  first  floor  there  is  a  large  hall,  which  has  served  us  for 
a  guard  room  ere  now.  Down  among  the  foundations  there  is  a  dungeon. 
On  the  second  floor  where  there  are  two  chambers,  one  opening  into  the 
other,  I  ha-ve  placed  this  Italian  and  his  page — " 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


477 


"  His  page !"  cried  Baron  Harry,  as  his  foot  touched  the  threshold. 

"  And  on  the  third  floor, — "  continued  Iron  Dickon,  without  heeding  his 
master — "  On  the  third  floor,  I  say,  there  is  a  chamber  which  overlooks 
the  country  for  a  score  of  miles,  and  there — " 

"Be  silent!"  whispered  the  Baron,  as  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  wrist 
of  his  servitor — "  There  are  other  ears  listening  beside  mine." 

The  servitors  stood  ranged  beside  the  lofty  door,  as  their  Lord  crossed 
the  threshold,  followed  by  Iron  Dickon. 

Curious  it  was  to  see  the  amazement  pictured  on  the  faces  of  the  re- 
doubted Twenty-Four.  They  whispered  one  with  the  other,  while  the 
wine-cup  stood  untasted  ;  they  cast  anxious  glances  toward  the  door ;  and 
soon  a  breathless  stillness  pervaded  that  hall,  so  lately  echoing  with  the 
shouts  and  laughter.  They  spoke  of  various  matters  with  the  manner 
and  look  of  men  who  talk  of  things  forbidden.  Of  the  Italian,  with  his 
bronzed  visage  and  eye  of  flame — was  he  indeed  a  Magician  ?  Had  he 
in  truth  sold  his  immortal  soul  to  the  enemy  of  mankind  ?  Of  the  elder 
brother,  Ranulph,  who  had  died  abroad,  they  also  spoke  ;  and  one,  bolder 
than  the  rest,  whispered  somewhat  of  the  old  man — the  Father.  At  the 
word,  there  rose  an  universal  murmur,  for  Lord  Harry  had  forbidden  the 
mention  of  his  father's  name  or  existence,  by  any  tongue  within  the  castle- 
walls.  Strange  it  was,  to  see  the  fear  which  had  descended  upon  the 
brave  Twenty- Four^  Was  this  strange  stillness,  this  sudden  fear,  an 
Omen  of  the  Calamity  which  that  night  befel  the  house  of  Mount 
Sepulchre  ?" 

An  hour  passed  and  the  Baron  had  not  returned. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  opened  ;  every  face  was  turned  to  look  upon 
the  Baron,  and  from  the  manner  of  his  countenance,  gather  some  indica. 
lions  of  the  nature  of  his  secret  counsels  with  the  Italian. 

It  was  not  the  Baron  who  appeared. 

A  man  of  tall  form,  clad  like  a  monk,  and  with  a  cowl  dropped  over 
his  face,  crossed  the  threshold,  and  with  hurried  steps  passed  through  the 
gaily-lighted  hall.  Not  once  did  he  turn  and  look  upon  the  guests  ;  no 
eye  caught  one  glimpse  of  his  face — he  appeared— he  crossed  the  hall — 
and  was  gone  through  an  opposite  door  while  the  joyous  Twenty-Four 
gazed  in  each  others  eyes,  in  blank  amazement. 

"The  Italian  !"  the  murmur  burst  from  every  lip. 

It  seemed,  in  truth,  as  if  that  tall  form,  clad  in  monkish  robes, "and  cross- 
ing the  marble  floor  with  a  soundless  step,  had  imbued  the  air  with  a 
spell,  and  left  a  mortal  fear  in  every  heart.  It  is  even  said,  that  the  fra- 
grance of  the  perfumed  lights  was  lost  in  the  odor  of  brimstone;  but  of 
this  I  am  not  assured. 

"  '{'he  Italian  !"  murmured  the  stout  Twenty-Four,  and  set  their  half- 
drained  goblets  down. 

Another  hour  was  gone.    Some  of  the  joyous  Knights  were  sleeping  in 


478 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR 


their  chairs,  others  were  conversing  in  low  whispers ;  the  Servitors  stood 
idle  in  the  shadows  of  the  lofty  pillars,  when  the  silence  was  broken  by  a 
footstep.  There  was  no  dismay,  no  fear  this  time.  It  was  the  bold  step 
of  Baron  Harry,  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre. 

He  crossed  the  threshold  with  a  flushed  cheek  and  sparkling  eye,  while 
Iron  Dickon  walked  scowling  and  sullen  at  his  heels. 

"  Gentle  sirs,  I  cry  your  mercy  for  this  discourtesy,"  he  exclaimed,  as 
he  stood  at  the  head  of  the  well-filled  board,  the  light  shining  upon  his 
noble  form,  and  revealing  his  animated  face,  which  seemed  framed  in  his 
red  beard  and  golden  hair — "  Matters  of  some  importance  claimed  my 
ear.  This  Italian  tells  me,  that  he  can  restore  the  poor  old  man,  my 
father,  to  strength  and  health  again — " 

Much  wonder  looked  from  the  eyes  of  the  Twenty-Four,  as  they  heard 
the  young  Lord  pronounce  that  name  of  all  names  the  most  forbidden — 
"My  Father  !" 

"  And  while  he  was  closeted  with  the  old  man,  in  the  third  floor  of  the 
Tower,  I — ha  !  ha  !  'Tis  a  merry  thought !  I  was  engaged  in  exploring 
the  mysteries  of  this  Italian's  den  on  the  second  floor.  I  'faith  'twas  a 
rare  hour  I  had  there  alone.  Alone,  did  I  say  ?  Yet  hold,  I  must  tell 
you  the  history  in  the  proper  way.  Why  sit  ye,  staring  like  monks,  be- 
tween the  hour  of  prayers  and  dinner  ?  Fill  goblets,  all,  and  I  will  tell 
you  the  merry  history  of  my  adventures."  • 

The  Twenty-Four  filled  their  goblets,  but  even  as  they  drained  each 
cup,  their  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Lord  Harry's  comely  face 

Behind  his  Lord,  his  scowling  visage  half  seen  above  the  young  Baron's 
head,  stood  Iron  Dickon,  fixed  and  immovable  as  one  of  the  effigies  which 
encircled  the  board. 

M  Ha,  ha!  'Tis  a  story  that  will  burn  your  ears,  my  joyous  Knights, 
brothers  of  this  Companionship,  which  finds  its  only  prayer  in  woman's 
eyes,  its  only  altar  in  a  well-filled  board,  its  only  worship  in  a  brimming 
cup.  But  listen.  There  are  two  rooms  on  the  second  floor  of  the  Tower 
of  Saladin,  two  rooms,  separated  by  a  narrow  door.  Dickon,  my  gay 
Death's  head,  didst  thou  not  force  the  door,— ha,  ha!  In  the  first  room  I 
found  alembics,  crucibles,  skulls,  and  parchments,  and  all  other  indications 
of  this  Italian's  wizard-craft.  But  in  the  second  room,  when  Dickon 
faced  the  .door, — the  Wizard  all  the  while  was  in  the  room  above,  with 
the  old  man,  my  father,  you  must  remember, — I  found  a— page  !  Not  a 
page  from  some  black-lettered  prayer  book,  my  good  Knights,  but  a  living, 
breathing  page,  bound  in  a  close-fitting  dress  of  black  velvet,  with  eyes 
like  stars,  hair  like  a  cloud,  and  a  bosom  young  and  warm  as — as— is 
your  blood,  after  the  first  cup  of  rich  old  wine  !" 

Wondrous  it  was  to  see  the  curiosity  which  stamped  every  face  of  the 
Twenty-Four, 

"  A  woman  !"  the  word  burst  from  every  lip. 


I 

THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  479 

"A  woman!"  echoed  the  hoarse  voice  of  Iron  Dickon 

M  The  page  was  sleeping  on  his, — or  her— couch.  A  light,  very  dim 
and  flickering  shone  over  her  face,  as  I  drew  near  the  bed.  She  lay  with 
one  cheek  resting  on  her  bent  arm,  and  her  dark  hair,  half-hidden  under 
a  velvet  cap,  half-straying  over  her  cheek  and  neck,  only  made  her  com- 
plexion seem  more  white  and  beautiful.  Although  truth  to  tell  it  was  rather 
brown  than  white, — a  ripe  brown,  with  red  bloom  on  the  lip,  and  a  rose- 
bud on  each  cheek.  And  she  was  sleeping  as  I  drew  near  the  bed,  her 
limbs  clad  in  black  velvet  resting  upon  the  white  coverlet — a  right  pleas- 
ing sight,  by  my  knightly  word.  Do  you  know,  gentle  Sirs,  what  thought 
stirred  in  my  brain,  as  I  beheld  the  sight '? 

"'Ho,  ho,  you  carry  it  bravely,  Sir  Sorcerer,'  I  muttered — 'You  come  to 
Mount  Sepulchre,  your  purpose,  the  restoring  of  my  good  father  to  health, 
and  sight.  Days  pass,  and  my  father  is  still  palsied  and  blind.  But  you, 
Sir  Magician,  console  your  hours  with  the  caresses  of  your  Italian  leman; 
yes,  Sybarite  that  you  are,  you  turn  this  chamber  of  Saladin's  tower,  in 
a  bower  for  your  lady-love.'  Is't  not  enough  to  mad  a  saint  ?  The  inso- 
lence of  this  swarthy  caitiff?" 

**  'Tis  incredible  !"  chorussed  the  Twenty-Four,  "  'Tis  hideous  !  The 
conjuring  knave  !" 

"  But  the  page  ?"  cried  a  grey-bearded  Knight,  and  Twenty-three  others 
echoed  the  question. 

Baron  Harry  seized  the  cup,  and  did  not  take  it  from  his  lips  until  he 
had  drained  the  last  drop.  He  passed  his  hand  through  the  curls  of  his 
golden  hair,  smoothed  his  red  beard,  and  his  eyes  grew  brighter,  his  cheek 
became  more  flushed  and  glowing. 

"  Thoughts  like  these  stirred  in  my  brain, — while  Iron  Dickon  held 
the  door.  I  resolved  to  punish  the  insolence  of  the  knave,  even  as  he  sat 
with  the  old  man  in  the  room  above.  Therefore  I  gently  touched  the 
sleeper's  cheek,  and  at  the  same  moment  crushed  the  light  beneath  my 
cap.  She  awoke  in  darkness,  she  took  my  hand,  and  whispered  '  Ra- 
phael is  it  thee,'  I  answered  her  with  a  kiss — without  a  doubt  she  mis- 
took me  for  the  Italian. 

Then  the  brave  Lord  burst  into  a  fit  of  boisterous  laughter,  accompanied 
by  sundry  twitchings  of  the  face  and  workings  of  the  eye,  which  seemed 
to  be  well  understood  by  the  Twenty-Four,  for  they  laughed  and  shouted 
until  the  Hall  of  Palestine  rung  with  the  deafening  uproar. 

"  Meanwhile,  gentles,  Iron  Dickon  held  the  door,"  continued  the  Lord 
of  Mount  Sepulchre,  "  And  the  Italian,  having  brought  to  an  end,  his  inter- 
view with  the  old  man,  descended  from  the  upper  room,  but  did  not  at- 
tempt to  enter  the  love-bower  in  which  I  was  conversing  with  his  page. 
May  be  he  did  not  see  Iron  Dickon  in  the  darkness — " 

"  He  passed  by  me,"  said  Iron  Dickon ;  "I  could  have  touched  him 
with  my  arm.    Well  for  him  that  he  did  not  attempt  to  enter  that  room  V' 

f  ^ 


430  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

He  raised  his  brawny  arm  above  the  head  of  his  Lord,  and  growled  an 
oath. 

"We  saw  the  Italian  pass  through  the  hall,"  cried  a  youthful  Knight 
"But  as  to  this  page — " 

"  I  left  him  only  a  moment  ago.  This  is  my  purpose  good  Knight,  and 
joyous  companions  !  We  are  very  much  like  monks,  here  in  our  good 
castle  of  Mount  Sepulchre.  We  pass' our  hours  in  earnest  worship,  but 
woman's  smile,  never  cheers  our  prayers, — woman's  eyes  never  shine 
upon  our  solemn  festivals.  What  say  ye  to  a  beautiful  woman,  who  shall 
preside  at  our  board,  direct  our  worship,  become,  in  a  word,  the  Lady 
Abbess  of  our  mysterious  rites  ?" 

The  Twenty-four  had  simply  laughed  and  shouted  before;  now  they 
started  from  their  seats  and  flung  their  wine-cups  in  the  air,  and  filled  the 
room  with  one  thunder  cry. — 

"  The  Lady  Abbess  !  The  Lady  Abbess  of  Mount  Sepulchre  !'* 

"Dickon  hie  thee  to  the  castle  gate.  Give  orders  there,  that  this  Italian 
never  enter  our  castle  again,  or  if  he.  does,  let  him  come  in  chains,  as  our 
prisoner,  and  let  him  be  conveyed  in  secresy,  to  the  deepest  cell,  beneath 
the  Tower  of  Saladin.    Dost  hear  ?" 

Iron  Dickon  growled  assent,  and  without  a  word  departed  on  his  errand. 
He  departed  through  the  Western  door  which  led  towards  the  castle  gate: 
the  Eastern  door  be  it  remembered  led  to  the  Tower  of  Saladin. 

"It  is  well, — "  cried  Baron  Harry, his  eyes  flashing  with  all  the  joy  of  his 
young  blood,  "  Thus  are  we  free  from  the  intrusion  of  the  Sorcerer.  He 
has  gone  to  the  ruins  of  the  Monastery  in  yonder  woods  ;  at  midnight  he 
will  return,  but  Iron  Dickon  will  take  care  of  his  prisoner.  As  for  the 
Lady  Abbess  she  shall  never  behold  him  again  ;  we  can  coin  some  brave 
story  of  his  treachery  and  flight.  Is  it  not  a  brave  plot  my  good  com- 
panions ?" 

Amid  the  shouts  and  laughter  Baron  Harry  took  his  seat,  and  filled  his 
cup  and  drank  to  the  Lady  Abbess  of  Mount  Sepulchre.  And  the  lamps, 
which  hung  from  the  dome  of  the  Hall,  shed  their  mild  light  over  the 
scene,  revealing  those  faces  convulsed  with  laughter  and  drunken  with 
wine,  with  the  comely  faoe  of  Lord  Harry  seen  at  the  head  of  the  board, 
encircled  by  its  golden  hair.  And  the  massive  pillars  glowed  in  the  light, 
until  their  fantastic  carvings  seemed  to  live  and  move,  like  the  uncouth 
shapes  of  a  dream.  And  the  figures  of  the  Crusaders,  clad  in  the  armer 
of  the  time  of  Richard  the  Lion  Heart,  and  standing  beside  the  lofty  co- 
lumns, with  the  Holy  Cross  upon  their  breasts,  gazed  upon  the  scene  of 
uproar,  and  seemed  to  smile,  as  if  in  sympathy  with  the  boundless  revel. 
The  purple  tapestry,  too,  which  hung  from  the  dome  to  the  marble  floor, 
quivering  its  heavy  folds  to  and  fro  with  a  gentle  motion,  caught  the  rays 
upon  its  painted  forms,  until  they  also  seemed  to  live  and  stir.  The  figure 
of  Richard  the  Lion  Heart  alone,  with  its  hands  clasped  on  the  massive 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAIIIKON. 


481 


sword,  gazed  upon  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  and  seemed  to  turn  its  eyes  away 
in  looking  from  the  banquet  scene. 

Merry  were  the  songs  they  sung,  joyous  the  tales  they  told,  without 
limit  or  number  the  goblets  they  emptied — the  right  noble  Twenty-Four. 
The  old  knight  told  many  a  marvellous  legend  of  their  bravery  in  the 
wars  ;  the  young  spoke  of  the  dread  King  Henry,  and  his  last  Queen, 
the  winsome  Anne  Boleyn,  and  of  the  merry  time  which  brave  lords  and 
fair  dames,  kept  at  his  court,  where  the  days  of  King  Solomon  lived 
again,  and  Love  and  Religion  went  hand  in  hand.  Tis  true  the  Love  was 
somewhat  of  the  basest,  nd  the  Religion  seemed  but  another  name  for 
Lust  and  Murder,  but  still  King  Harry  was  a  dread  Monarch,  and  his 
court  was  a  joyous  place. 

And  amid  all  the  uproar,  Lord  Harry  never  ceased  to  lift  his  cup,  and 
pledge  the  health  of  "  the  Lady  Abbess  of  Mount  Sepulchre  !" 

"My  Lord  the  Italian  has  not  returned, — "  said  a  sullen  voice — "But 
I  have  obeyed  your  behests.  When  he  comes,  he  will  be  conveyed. in 
secresy  to  the  cell,  under  Saladin's  Tower." 

Iron  Dickon,  that  rude  Samson,  stood  at  the  shoulder  of  his  Lord, 
scowling  gloomily  over  the  festival  board. 

"  Hah  !  You  have  done  well  ;  the  knave  shall  trouble  us  no  more. 
What  say  you  gentles  ?"  he  cried  as  he  started  from  his  chair — "  Shall  I 
lead  the  Lady  Abbess,  into  this  Hall,  to  receive  the  homage  of  her  hum- 
ble devotees  ?  While  the  Italian  rests  quietly  in  the  darkness  of  the  cell, 
shall  we  confess  our  sins,  to  the  beautiful  Saint,  nay  the  High  Priestess 
of  our  Temple  ?" 

"  But  will  she  come?"  cried  one. 

"Dare  you  lead  her  hither?"  exclaimed  another. 

"  The  Abbess  !  The  Abbess  !  Let  us  behold  her  !"  yelled  the  others 
of  the  Twenty-Four. 

"  Dare  I  lead  her  hither  ?  Whose  voice  spoke  there  !  Ha,  ha  !  You 
will  soon  behold  her,  in  all  her  loveliness,  at  the  head  of  'our  board.  A 
very  Venus,  by  my  faith  !    In  a  moment,  Sirs,  I  will  return  !" 

He  turned  toward  the  Eastern  door,  but  paused  a  moment  to  call  Iron 
Dickon  to  his  side. 

"Awav,  Dickon.  Watch  by  the  castle  gate.  Do  not  appear  again, 
until  the  Italian  returns." 

And  as  the  gloomy  Servitor  departed  by  the  Western  door,  his  Lord, 
attired  in  garments  of  price,  sprinkled  with  stars  and  jewels,  glided  through 
the  Eastern  door,  his  white  plume  waving  over  his  laughing  face. 

The  Twenty-Four  were  alone  with  their  cups  again,  but  their  eyes  were 
incessantly  turned  toward' the  Eastern  door,  over  whose  threshold  the 
beautiful  Abbess  was  soon  to  glide,  with  the  step  of  a  Queen,  and  a  face 
worthy  of  Lady  Venus,  the  Saint  of  Love. 

Ten  minutes  passed  away,  but  the  brave  Baron  did  not  appear. 

31 


* 


482 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"  What  detains  our  Lord?    Does  the  dame  prove  reluctant?"  said  one. 

"  Ah,  ha  !"  laughed  another,  "  It  may  be  that  she  recognizes  her  »  Ra- 
phael' in  person  of  Lord  Harry.    'Tvvas  a  brave  trick  by  the  rood  I" 

At  this  instant  a  dagger,  dripping  with  blood,  fell  upon  the  table,  and 
clanged  against  the  golden  platters,  as  its  blood-drops  were  sprinkled  over 
the  board. 

Vain  were  the  attempt  to  picture  the  surprise,  the  dismay  of  the  Twenty- 
Four.  Their  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  dagger,  a  long  blade  with  a  hilt 
of  gold,  and  then  they  gazed  pale  and  wondering  into  each  others  faces. 

"  That  dagger  was  flung  there  by  no  human  hand !"  faltered  the  old 
Knight. 

At  this  moment,  the  Twenty-Four,  gazing  toward  the  head  of  the  table, 
behold — Baron  Harry  with  the  beautiful  woman  leaning  on  his  arm  ?  I  trow 
not.  But  a  tall  figure,  robed  in  something  like  a  monkish  garb,  with  the 
arms  folded,  and  the  cowl  drooped  over  the  face. 

"  The  Italian!"  the  cry  burst  from  every  lip — "His  hand  hath  flung  this 
dagger  on  our  board.    Seize  him, — seize  him,  in  the  name  of  our  Lord !" 

They  started  with  one  impulse  from  their  chairs,  but  not  a  hand  was 
extended  to  grasp  the  sombre  figure,  which  without  voice  or  motion,  stood 
like  a  dumb  Image  of  wood  or  stone,  at  the  head  of  the  board. 

The  face  was  lost  in  the  shadow  of  the  cowl ;  they  could  not  trace  a 
single  feature. 

The  contrast  between  this  solitary  form,  robed  in  funeral  black  and 
those  gay  figures  attired  as  if  for  a  marrhge  feast,  was  striking  and  won- 
derful. 

And  yet  they  did  not  stir ;  not  an  arm  was  lifted  to  strike  him  to  the 
floor ;  it  seemed  as  though  tho  strange  awe,  which  fell  upon  the  Twenty- 
Four,  was  his  protection  ;  as  though  his  very  presence  chilled  every  heart 
into  ice. 

"Seize  him,"  cried  the  old  Knight — "  Remember  the  words  of  the 
Baron  ;  seize  the  Sorcerer  !" 

A  voice  come  from  beneath  the  shadow  of  that  gloomy  cowl.  It  was 
iict  loud, — far  from  boisterous — and  yet  it  pierced  every  nook  of  that  spa- 
cious hall. 

"That  dagger  is  stained  with  your  Baron's  blood.  Go!  and  minister 
to  him  in  his  dying  hour.  You  have  shared  his  pleasures  ;  now  behold 
his  agonies.  He  lies  on  the  threshold  of  the  second  chamber  of  Saiadin, 
even,  upon  the  spot  where  I  struck  him  down." 

The  hall  rang  with  shouts  of  vengeance,  and  the  light  disclosed  faces 
distorted  by  rage,  but  not  a  hand  was  raised  against  the  Italian's  breast. 

"Our  Lord  murdered  !    The  gallant  Harry  slain  by  this  Sorcerer !" 

"  Go  !"  cried  the  Italian,  still  speaking  from  the  shadow  of  his  cowl — 
"  Bring  hither  the  body  of  the  dying  man.  In  his  presence,  I  will  submit 
to  your  judgment." 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


483 


The  aged  Knight  spoke  to  three  others — "Come,"  he  whispered  "we 
will  do  as  this  wretch  advises.  But  look  ye — "  he  cried  aloud  turning  to 
the  rest  of  the  band — "  Look  ye,  one  and  all,  that  the  Assassin  does  not 
escape  !" 

With  these  words,  the  aged  Knight  and  the  three  others  left  the  hall  by 
the  Eastern  door,  while  the  remaining  Twenty,  folding  their  arms,  stood 
in  dead  silence  around  the  board,  their  eyes  fixed  as  if  by  some  unearthly 
spell,  upon  the  veiled  form  of  the  Murderer. 

Not  once  did  he  raise  the  cowl ;  not  once  did  he  remove  his  folded 
arms  from  his  breast.  Silent,  erect,  immovable,  he  seemed  to  fix  his 
eyes,— from  the  shadow  of  the  cowl — upon  the  dagger,  which  lay  amid 
the  platters  and  goblets  of  gold,  its  blade  glittering  with  blood. 

"Wherefore  didst  thou  do  this  thing?"  asked  one  of  the  Knights,  after 
a  pause  of  breathless  stillness. 

"  Was  it  for  the  sake  of  thy  leman  ?"  added  another. 

"  By  the  body  of  your  dying  Lord,  I  will  confess,"  answered  the  Italian 
in  a  low  voice. 

The  tramp  of  footsteps  was  heard  from  the  Eastern  door,  and  soon  the 
four  Knights  appeared,  bearing  a  body,  which  was  covered  by  a  dark 
cloth,  resting  upon  face  and  breast  like  a  pall. 

"  He  is  dead,"  said  the  aged  Knight,  and  they  laid  the  veiled  corse  at 
the  feet  of  the  Murderer.  "  Now  sir  conjuror,  look  first  upon  the  face  of 
the  dead,  and  then  upon  thy  death." 

He  drew  his  sword,  and  the  others  followed  his  example,  and  formed  a 
circle  around  the  Italian  and  the  body  of  the  dead.  And  the  Servitors, 
pale  and  shuddering,  looked  over  the  shoulders  of  the  Knights,  and  awaited 
in  dumb  suspense  the  issue  of  the  scene.    Iron  Dickon  alone  was  absent. 

A  breathless  awe  such  as  comes  upon  the  souls  of  men,  when  a  deed 
of  Murder  has  been  done,  and  when  the  very  air  seems  to  be  hushed  by 
the  presence  of  Death,  fell  upon  the  lips  and  hearts  of  the  spectators  of 
this  scene. 

"  Beneath  that  robe  lies  a  dead  body,  still  warm  still  bleeding ;  and 
only  a  moment  ago  that  foul  thing  of  clay,  was  my  Lord  Harry  Baron  of 
Mount  Sepulchre !" 

It  was  this  thought  that  sealed  every  lip,  and  roused  even  the  drunken 
knights,  into  the  consciousness  that  Death  was  there — grim  and  brooding  in 
the  luxurious. Hall  of  Palestine. 

"Tell  us,  sir  conjuror,"  said  the  old  knight,  even  Ralph  of  Grey-wolf 
between  his  set  teeth — "  What  urged  thee  to  this  deed  ?" 

A  murmur  swelled  through  the  hall,  and  then  again  that  brooding 
stillness. 

The  Italian  did  not  lift  his  cowl.  No  man  might  trace  the  emotions  of 
his  face.  But  he  trembled  ;  the  hands  which  were  crossed  upon  his  breast 
shook  as  with  a  spasm. 


484  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 

*'  Gentle  sirs," — he  began  in  a  sad  and  humbled  tone — "  Ye  have  read 
in  the  Holy  Book  of  a  poor  man  who  had  a  lamb,  only  one,  and  even 
that  the  Rich  Man  coveted  and  tore  from  its  shelter  near  the  poor  man's 
heart — " 

"  Read  us  no  monkish  lesson,"  growled  Ralph  of  Grey-wolf — "  There 
lies  the  corse  !  answer  for  that  deed,  and  pray ;  for  the  time  grows  short 
with  thee !" 

44  There  was  a  Maiden,  gentle  sirs,  whom  the  poor  Scholar  had  gathered 
to  his  heart,  not  as  a  wife  or  mistress,  but  as  a  sister,  a  holy  thing,  too 
pure  for  one  taint  of  earth-born  love.  She  had  been  as  a  blessing  from 
God,  to  him  in  his  weary  march  through  the  world — she  shone  in  his 
dark  cell,  like  a  good  Spirit  sent  by  Heaven,  to  cheer  the  brain  when  it 
was  sick,  to  nerve  the  heart  when  it  was  faint,  to  thrill  some  life  into  the 
soul,  when  it  grew  cold  within  its  corpse-like  shell.  Through  many  a 
land,  that  true  maiden  disguised  in  the  apparel  of  a  Page,  walked  with  the 
forlorn  Scholar, — his  good  Angel  in  every  dark  hour.  And  when  his  des- 
tiny led  him  from  the  court  of  your  King  to  this  Castle  of  Mount  Sepul- 
chre, she  was  with  him  still,  the  only  thing  for  which  he  lived.  Your 
Lord  wished  the  Scholar  to  create  Gold  for  him,  and  spoke  something  of  a 
sick  old  man,  blind  and  palsied,  whom  the  Scholar  might  restore  to  sight 
and  health.  And  while  the  Scholar  bent  down  amid  his  wierd  studies  in 
one  cha/nber  of  the  Tower,  this  angel  in  the  shape  of  woman,  this  pure 
maiden  whose  lip  had  never  throbbed  to  one  unholy  kiss — even  from  his 
lips,  who  had  worshipped  her — would  come  gently  over  the  threshold, 
and  lay  her  hands  upon  his  fevered  brow,  and  press  that  brow  against  her 
virgin  breast." 

The  knights  began  to  gaze  upon  this  strange  man  with  involuntary 
interest.  So  humble  and  mild  his  tone,  that  even  Ralph  of  Grey-wolf  was 
moved  despite  himself.  He  dashed  a  tear  away  with  a  curse,  and  bade 
the  Scholar — "  Go  on,  Sirrah  !  and  make  brief  your  words,  for  the  mo- 
ment of  your  death  is  near  !" 

"To  night  I  summoned  your  Lord  from  the  hall.  Gold,  I  assured  him, 
I  would  create  at  his  command,  but  he  must  give  me  sight  of  the  old  man, 
whom  I  came  to  Mount  Sepulchre  to  cure.  He  denied  me ;  I  turned  to 
leave  the  castle,  when  at  last  he  bade  me  seek  the  old  man  in  the  upper 
chamber  of  the  tower.  Ascending  a  stairway  built  in  the  thickness  of  the 
wall,  I  came  into  the  room,  in  the  summit  of  the  tower,  and  by  the  light 
©f  my  lamp,  struggling  with  the  moonbeams,  that  shone  through  the  soli- 
tary window,  I  beheld  a  scene  that  might  have  moved  a  Devil  into  shame 
and  tears.  The  old  man  was  there,  his  white  beard  waving  over  his> 
breast,  but  his  wrists  and  ankles,  were  chained  to  the  flo.or,  as  though  he 
had  been  a  savage  beast.  He  was  blind,  he  was  palsied,  but  his  own 
child  had  blinded  him,  his  own  child  had  stricken  his  veins  with  palsy. 
Aye,  three  years  ago,  from  the  bed  of  fever,  the  old  man  was  hurled 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  485 

into  a  dark  and  loathsome  cell;  his  sight  was  gone,  his  brain  was  dead, 
when  his  Son  brought  him  into  light  again,  and  chained  him  to  the  tower 
floor.  Your  young  Lord  wished  the  Lordship  of  Mount  Sepulchre  ere 
his  father  was  dead." 

"It  is  false!  Knave  the  lie  blisters  on  thy  tongue!"  shouted  Ralph 
of  Grey-wolf,  but  the  rest  of  the  Twenty-Four  was  silent.  Murmurs  such 
as  the  belated  wayfarer,  hears  from  the  Ghosts  that  haunt  accursed  burial 
places,  began  to  creep  from  lip  to  lip. 

"And  I  struck  off  his  chains.  And  I  raised  him  from  the  loathsome 
floor  of  that  foul  den.  And  I,  the  Italian,  the  Sorcerer,  spoke  to  him  the 
first  word  of  kindness  he  had  heard  in  the  long  night  of  blindness,  yes, — 
yes — his  dead  brain  throbbed  into  something  like  life  at  the  sound  of  my 
words.  Meanwhile  your  young  Lord,  crept  into  the  chamber,  sacred 
with  the  presence  of  a  pure  woman,  and  in  the  darkness,  aye,  like  a 
coward  who  does  a  coward's  murder  in  the  dark,  he  went  to  his  infernal 
treachery.  He,  pressed  that  lip  which  I  had  never  touched,  even  with  a 
brother's  kiss,  he  dishonored  that  form,  which  I  had  never  looked  upon, 
but  from  afar  and  with  the  reverence  of  a  holy  worship." 

"  She  was  thy  leman,"  said  old  Ralph  bluntly — "  This  castle  is  no  place 
for  the  loves  of  a  wandering  beggar  and  his  mistress." 

But  the  Twenty-Four  did  not  chorus  his  words.  Something  like  sym- 
pathy subdued  the  ferocious  resolve,  which  had  impressed  their  faces ; 
whispering  one  with  the  other,  they  said  with  a  shudder  that  it  was  an 
infernal  deed,  and  that  my  Lord  Harry  of  Mount  Sepulchre,  had  deserved 
his  death,  not  so*  much  on  account  of  the  Italian  woman,  as  for  the  blind- 
ness and  palsy  of  the  old  man,  his  father. 

"Still  thou  must  answer  for  the  deed — "  said  the  youngest  of  them  ail, 
and  an  ominous  murmur  echoed  his  words,  as  sword  in  hand  he  advanced 
from  the  group— "Answer  for  it  now,  and  with  thy  life  !" 

"  First  uncover  the  corse  !"  said  the  Italian,  clutching  his  dark  robe 
with  trembling  hands. 

Old  Ralph  with  his  dagger  between  his  teeth,  and  his  sword  under  his 
arm  bent  down,  and  touched  the  dark  robe,  which  veiled  the  dead, — 

"  Hold!"  cried  the  young  knight — "Let  him  answer  first  how  the  deed 
was  done.  We  all  beheld  thee  cross  this  pall,  an  hour  and  more  ago,  on 
thy  way  to  the  castle  gate.  Thou  didst  not  return  this  way.  How  didst 
gain  entrance  to  the  castle  ?    Answer  me  ?" 

The  Italian  simply  replied,  in  his  low  sad  voice — 

"  Uncover  the  corse,  and  I  will  tell  you  all !" 

Old  Ralph  grasped  the  dark  cloth,  and  the  interest  of  the  group,  was 
manifested  in  their  straining  eyes,  when  their  circle  was  increased  by  a 
new  spectator,  a  man  with  haggard  face  and  blood-shot  eyes,  who  stole 
unobserved  behind  the  grim  knight,  and  looked  upon  the  motionless  Italian 
with  a  vague  and  horror-stricken  gaze.    As  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  the 


486  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

bony  hands  of  old  Ralph,  grasping  the  robe  which  covered  the  dead,  this 
new  spectator  of  the  scene  passed  unobserved,  until  the  Italian  raising  his 
glance,  beheld  that  haggard  face,  with  its  eyeballs  discolored  with  injected 
blood. 

At  the  sight  the  Italian  started  back,  wavered  to  and  fro  like  a  man 
drunken  with  wine,  and  then  his  lips  gave  utterance  to  an  ejaculation 
which  pierced  every  soul : 

"  The  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre  come  back  to  life !"  and  dropping  his 
face,  covered  by  the  cowl,  upon  his  breast,  he  stretched  forth  his  white 
hands  toward  the  haggard  form. 

They  raised  their  eyes,  and  a  cry  such  as  never  was  heard  before  within 
those  walls,  pealed  echoing  to  the  dome  : 

''The  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre  come  back  to  life  !" 

It  was  even  so.  The  haggard  form,  w'th  dress  disordered  and  golden 
hair  matted  upon  the  brow — damp  with  oeaded  sweat — and  blood-shot 
eyes  rolling  in  a  livid  face,  was  none  other  than  Lord  Harry  of  Mount 
Sepulchre. 

He  gazed  into  their  affrighted  faces  without  a  word ;  his  eyes  rolled 
with  an  idiotic  glare. 

"  If  thou  art  the  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre — "  the  Italian  whispered,  his 
white  hands  extended  and  his  head  drooped  on  his  breast, — "  Then  who 
was  it,  that  fell  beneath  my  steel  in  yonder  chamber?" 

Old  Ralph  stripped  the  dark  cloth  from  the  breast  and  face  of  the  dead. 

And  every  knight  moved  one  step  backward,  even  old  Ralph  shrank 
shudderingly  away  ;  the  haggard  Lord  and  the  Italian  confronted  each 
other  beside  the  corse. 

It  was  an  aged  man,  whose  gaunt  form  was  clad  in  rags,  but  whose 
white  beard,  flowing  to  the  breast,  was  dabbled  in  blood.  The  eyes  wide 
open,  fixed  in  death  ;  the  jaw  fallen,  the  hands  cramped  and  distorted, 

stretched  stiffly  beside  the  lifeless  frame  a  sadder  sight  the  eye  of 

man  never  saw. 

It  was  the  old  Lord,  Hubert  of  Mount  Sepulchre. 

And  around  this  hideous  image  of  Sudden  Death,  thronged  the  affrighted 
spectators, — knights  and  servitors — every  face  blank,  every  lip  sealed. 

The  Italian  knelt  beside  the  corse,  and  stretched  forth  his  hands  over 
its  face,  muttering  to  himself  in  a  low  voice. 

Lord  Harry,  like  a  man  ridden  by  a  night-mare,  looked  vacantly  into 
the  face  of  the  dead,  and  then  into  the  eyes  of  the  spectators,  as  if  to  ask 
the  meaning  of  the  scene. 

The  dead  awe  which  rested  upon  the  hall  of  Palestine,  was  disturbed 
by  a  low  and  gentle  step,  and  there  came  a  woman's  form,  half  hidden  in 
the  raven  hair  which  flowed  to  her  knees,  stealing  through  the  throng,  and 
taking  her  place,  in  silence,  between  Lord  Harry  and  the  prostrate  Italian. 

Through  the  meshes  of  her  hair,  her  white  arms  were  seen  folded  over 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


487 


her  breast,  and  her  eyes,  unnaturally  large,  dazzled  the  spectators  with 
their  brightness,  as  they  vacantly  turned  their  glance  from  face  to  face. 
"  The  Italian's  leman  !" 

"  So  pale  and  yet  so  beautiful  she  stood  there,  attired  as  much  in  the 
waves  of  her  black  tresses  as  in  her  loosened  robe,  that  the  spectators 
thought  they  beheld  no  living  woman,  but  a  spirit  from  the  other  world. 

"Raphael  1"  she  whispered,  bending  down  beside  the  Italian, — "I  am 
innocent !" 

The  words  were  simple,  but  the  sound  of  her  voice  seemed  at  once  to 
break  the  spell  which  chained  the  Sorcerer  to  the  corse,  and  bound  the 
spectators  in  breathless  awe.  At  once  the  Italian  started  up,  and  dashed 
her  from  him,  yes,  dashed  her  beautiful  form  upon  the  breast  of  the  dead  ; 
at  once  the  knights  rushed  forward,  brandishing  their  swords,  at  once  Lord 
Harry,  recovering  from  his  idiotic  apathy,  raised  his  voice,  and  called  for 
vengeance  upon  the  Assassin  of  his  Father. 

Amid  the  infuriated  throng,  the  Italian  stood  erect,  hemmed  in  by  a 
circle  of  interwoven  swords,  that  glittered  in  the  light  like  fiery  serpents^ 
shut  out  on  every  side  from  hope  and  life,  by  brawny  arms  and  faces  red- 
dening with  the  lust  of  blood. 

But  at  this  moment  occurred  a  scene,  which,  witnessed  as  it  was,  by 
thirty  living  men,  seems  so  strange,  so  utterly  incredible,  that  I,  humble 
Eustace  Brynne,  the  writer  of  this  chronicle,  tremble  as  I  record  it  upon 
my  page. 

Even  as  the  Knights  rushed  forward  to  sheathe  their  swords  in  the  blood 
of  the  Italian,  the  lights  were  obscured  and  the  wide  hall  darkened  by  a 
cloud  of  vapor,  which  rolled  from  the  dome  to  the  floor  in  vast  and  undu- 
lating columns.  This  vapor  blinded  every  eye;  no  one  could  distinguish 
the  face  of  his  neighbor ;  they  tossed  to  and  fro  like  men  bewitched,  and 
grappled  with  each  other  in  the  gloom.  And  from  that  rose-colored  cloud, 
their  shouts  and  curses  swelled  into  the  dome,  like  the  confused  cries  of 
drowning  men  from  the  vortex  of  a  whirlpool. 

When  the  vapor  cleared  away,  and  the  lights  shone  brightly  once  more 
throughout  the  hall,  and  the  knights  beheld  each  others'  faces,  they  found 
themselves  standing  sword  in  hand,  around  the  corse  of  the  old  man;  Lord 
Harry  the  most  infuriate  of  the  throng,  rending  the  stillness  with  curses 
as  he  shook  his  dagger  over  his  head. 

But  the  Italian  and  the  Woman  had  disappeared. 

In  vain  they  searched  the  wide  hall ;  in  vain  they  thrust  their  swords 
behind  the  hangings  ;  in  vain  their  angry  questioning  of  the  frightened 
servitors.  There  was  no  trace  of  the  Italian  and  his  mistress.  No  one 
had  seen  them  fly  ;  no  door  had  been  opened  to  give  them  egress  from 
the  Hall. 

But  they  were  gone  ;  their  place  beside  the  body  of  the  dead  was  vacant. 
They  had  vanished  like  forms  of  cloud  before  the  morning  breeze. 


488  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR 

When  this  consciousness  was  impressed  upon  the  hearts  of  the  Knights, 
they  gathered  again  around  the  body  of  the  old  man,  resting  the  points  of 
their  swords  upon  the  marble  floor,  as  they  looked  with  fixed  eyes  upon 
the  dead.  Lord  Harry  was  in  their  midst,  his  arms  drawn  tightly  over 
his  breast ;  his  eyes  sunken  beneath  the  downdrawn  brows,  were  rivetted 
upon  his  Father's  face. 

No  one  dared  question  him  concerning  his  knowledge  of  this  terrible 
deed,  but  that  which  no  one  asked,  he  told  himself  in  broken  tones. 

"  It  is  the  work  of  Sathanas  I"  he  muttered,  as  though  speaking  with 
himself — "My  hand  was  on  the  door  of  her  chamber,  when  I  heard  voices 
wit«hin — his  voice  and  hers — mingling  in  low  and  hurried  tones.  I  listened; 
she  was  telling  him  that  he  had  been  there,  but  an  hour  before,  and  that 

he  had  pressed  his  kiss  upon  her  lip,  and  he  denied  in  cold  and 

angry  tones,  and  my  name  trembled  from  his  lips,  followed  by  the  sound 
of  a  footstep,  approaching  the  door  by  which  I  was  listening.  1  drew 
back  deeper  into  the  shadows  ;  the  door  was  opened,  and  by  the  blaze  of 
light  which  rushed  into  the  cell,  I  saw  his  arm  lifted,  and  saw  my  father 
fall  bleeding  beneath  the  blow.  He,  too,  had  been  concealed  within  the 
cell ;  he  had  started  up  as  the  light  flashed  in  his  face,  and  received  the 
blow  intended  for  me.  For,  as  the  caitiff  struck,  he  shrieked,  'this  for 
thee,  my  Lord  Harry  of  Mount  Sepulchre  /'  Then,  without  turning  to 
look  upon  the  corse,  he  fled.  How  came  my  father  there  ?  True,  the 
stairway  of  his  cell  opens  into  the  Wizard's  room,  but  who  unloosed  the 
old  man's  chains  ?  It  is  the  work  of  Sathanas  !"  he  turned  with  a  flushed 
cheek  and  rolling  eye,  to  his  brave  Twenty-Four,  "  Yes,  the  Enemy  of 
Mankind  hath  been  among  us  !" 

There  was  no  answer  for  the  young  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre.  The 
Knights,  young  and  old,  looked  upon  his  face  and  upon  the  cold  face  of 
the  dead,  and  kept  their  peace. 

"What  do  1  see  ?  Do  you  shrink  from  my  touch,  gentle  sirs  ?  Is  there 
poison  in  my  look  ?  Come — the  good  old  man  is  dead — Sathanas  has 
been  here— let  us  forget  it  all  in  a  brimming  cup  !  God's  death,  my  good 
companions,  your  pale  visages  are  enough  to  make  a  man  afraid  !" 

The  brave  Knight  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  wine-cup  and  the  board, 
in  the  dumb  horror  of  the  dead  man's  face.  Old  Ralph  alone  gave  answer 
to  the  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre — 

«  Cover  his  face,  my  good  Lord,  and  let  us  to  our  beds.  As  for  me,  by 
to-morrow's  light,  I  am  bound  for  France  or  for  some  other  land,  where 
there  is  Priest  and  Shrine,  to  wash  out  the  stain  of  sin,  from  my  Soul. 
This  night's  work  my  good  Lord,  hath  made  me  think  strangely  of  the 
wild  life,  we  have  led  together." 

The  young  Lord  answered  him  with  a  curse,  when  Iron  Dickon's  huge 
form  appeared  in  the  Western  door,  his  hand  extended  in  the  act  of  beckon- 
ing to  his  Master.  The  Baron  crossed  the  marble  floor,  and  conversed  for  a 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


489 


moment  with  his  vassal,  and  after  a  little  while,  returned  once  more  to  the 
group,  as  Iron  Dickon  disappeared. 

"He  knows  nothing  yet  of  this"  said  the  young  Lord,  pointing  to  the 
corse,  "  And  as  for  me,  I  had  neither  heart  nor  time  to  tell  him  now.  By 
my  faith,  he  waited  tenderly  upon  the  old  man  while  he  lived  !  He  tells 
me  now,  gentle  sirs,  that  an  hour  ago  he  secured  the  Italian,  and  conveyed 
him  by  a  secret  passage  to  the  cell  beneath  Saladin's  tower.  You  may 
make  of  that  what  you  please,  but  for  the  present,  Iron  Dickon  brings 
strange  intelligence  to  us  all.  What  say  you,  my  good  Knight?  A  mes- 
senger from  our  King  waits  at  the  Castle  gate.  He  demands  instant  au- 
dience with  me.  Let  the  body  of  the  dead  be  removed  ;  hide  it  behind 
the  hangings.    I  will  await  the  coming  of  this  Messenger,  where  I  stand." 

They  raised  the  corse,  and  wrapped  it  in  the  sombre  robe,  and. hurriedly 
concealed  it,  behind  the  drapery  of  the  Hall.  Lord  Harry,  with  one  hand 
laid  upon  the  banquet  table,  and  the  other  resting  upon  the  hilt  of  his 
sword,  stood  in  an  attitude  of  calm  dignity,  awaiting  in  silence,  the  com- 
ing of  King  Henry's  Messenger.  His  cheek  was  bloodless,  his  lips  with- 
out color,  his  eyes  blood-shotten,  and  yet  he  was  calm.  Behind  him, 
ranged  in  a  half  circle  were  grouped  the  renowned  Twenty-Four,  their 
faces,  one  and  all,  wearing  a  look  of  blai^v  awe,  while  their  gaze  was  fixed 
upon  the  Western  door  of  the  Hall.  They  awaited  the  appearance  of  the 
Messenger  with  a  vague  curiosity  and  suspense. 

"  He  will  leave  his  men-at  arms  without  the  castle  gate,  and  enter  the 
Hall  alone,"  exclaimed  Lord  Harry  :  "  'Tis  a  privilege  of  Our  Race,  thus 
to  receive  the  Messenger  of  the  King.  I'  faith  he  does  not  seem  in  a 
jjurry  to  fulfil  his  message.    Shall  we  wait  for  him,  till  morning  dawns  ?" 

The  words  had  not  passed  his  lips,  when  the  Western  door  was  opened, 
by  Iron  Dickon,  and  unannounced — either  by  trumpet  peal  or  the  voice  of 
Herald — the  Messenger  of  the  King  entered  the  Hall  of  Palestine.  As 
he  crossed  the  marble  floor,  advancing  toward  Lord  Harry,  every  eye  took 
the  measure  of  his  form,  and  a  murmur  swelled  through  the  Hall,  as  the 
light  shone  on  his  face. 

He  was  in  good  sooth,  a  man  of  remarkable  bearing. 

His  form,  tall  and  majestic,  was  clad  in  a  close-fitting  garment  of  pur- 
ple velvet,  which  set  off  every  grace  of  his  figure,  and  gave  new  dignity 
to  the  kingly  composure  of  his  carriage.  The  velvet,  which  looked  black 
by  the  rays  of  the  lamp,  was  only  relieved  by  a  single  diamond,  which 
shone  upon  his  left  breast,  and  dazzled  every  eye.  On  his  right  arm,  he 
carried  a  mantle  of  dark  velvet,  which  hung  in  easy  folds,  as  he  advanced ; 
and  his  left  hand,  grasped  his  cap,  shaded  by  a  cluster  of  jetly  plumes. 
His  brow  was  uncovered  and  every  eye  beheld  his  face. 

It  was  a  noble  countenance,  every  feature  looking  like  the  work  of  the 
Sculptor's  chissel,  firm,  regular,  and  cold  as  marble.  Around  the  great 
forehead,  unseamed  by  a  wrinkle,  but  pale  as  death,  clustered  his  hair,  in 


490 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


profuse  masses,  which  seemed  even  blacker  than  the  mantle  hanging  on 
his  arm.  His  eyes,  somewhat  sunken  beneath  the  brows,  shone  with  in- 
expressible lustre  ;  they  were  black,  and  yet  more  bright  and  dazzling 
than  the  star  which  glittered  on  his  breast. 

In  a  word  if  the  form,  would  have  attracted  your  gaze  among  a  crowd 
of  a  thousand,  the  face  would  have  won  your  eye,  and  chained  it  too, 
among  ten  thousand  faces.  While  the  form  indicated  the  warrior,  the 
face  brought  to  mind,  the  countenance  of  a  Monk;  not  a  joyous  Monk, 
red  with  the  juice  of  the  grape,  and  swollen  with  good  cheer;  but  si 
Monk  buried  in  the  awful  silence  and  breathless  solitudes  of  his  earth- 
hidden  cell. 

"  Your  pardon,  gentle  sirs,  for  this  unwelcome  intrusion,"  said  the 
Stranger,  Tts  he  surveyed  the  knightly  throng,  "  But  I  seek  the  Lord  of 
Mount  Sepulchre,  on  business  of  the  King.  Will  it  please  ye,  to  inform 
him  that  the  Count  Capello,  craves  an  interview  on  behalf  of  his  dread 
Majesty  Henry  the  Eighth  ?" 

These  words  pronounced  in  a  measured  voice,  and  with  an  air  of  great 
dignity,  produced  an  impression  as  sudden  as  it  was  various.  Not  a  few 
of  the  knights,  murmurred  such  words  as,  "  Foreigner  !  One  of  the  out- 
landish favorites  of  the  King  !"  others  gazed  in  silence  upon  the  com- 
manding face  of  the  Stranger,  while  Ralph  of  Grey-wolf  exclaimed  with 
a  deep  sigh — "  A  true  Catholic  by  the  Rood  !  Mayhap  a  Cardinal  in  dis- 
guise.   I  will  confess  to  him  !" 

As  for  Lord  Harry,  he  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  face,  as  the  quiet  tones 
of  the  Count  Capello  penetrated  his  ears  : 

"  I  am  the  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre,  Sir  Count,"  he  said,  and  drew 
himself  up  with  a  haughty  air. 

"Thou  !"  cried  the  Count  with  a  start.    "  I  cry  your  mercy,  noble  Sir,, 
but  I  was  told  that  Lord  Hubert  was  an  aged  man.    I  pray  you,  lead  me 
to  him,  or  at  least,  give  me  audience  with  Lord  Ranulph  his  elder  Son." 

"  I  am  Lord  Harry,  Baron  of  Mount  Sepulchre,"  cried  the  young  Lord 
in  a  burst  of  indignation,  for  the  gaze  and  look  of  the  foreign  Count, 
roused  his  blood — "As  for  Lord  Hubert,  he  is  blind  and  old,  and  never 
again  will  give  audience  to  any  one,  not  even  to  the  King  himself,  were 
he  to  honor  my  poor  mansion  with  his  presence.  And  Ranulph — he  died 
abroad  years  ago.    Sir  Count,  I  await  the  message  of  the  King  !" 

Beautiful  it  is  to  see,  the  native  dignity  of  a  high-born  English  Lord  ! 
There  was  Baron  Harry,  as  gallant  a  Knight  as  ever  rode  to  battle,  raising 
himself  to  his  full  stature,  his  proud  lip  curling,  and  his  blue  eyes  full  of 
icy  scorn,  while  the  Foreign  Count,  abashed  by  his  commanding  presence 
drew  back  a  step,  bowed  his  head  and  held  his  jetty  plumes  before  his 
face. 

"  There  is  the  message  of  the  King,  gracious  Sir,"  he  said,  and  with- 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  W1SSAHIKON 


491 


out  raising  his  face,  extended  a  folded  parchment,  which  was  burdened 
with  a  heavy  seal. 

"  The  Seal  of  his  Majesty  !"  murmurred  Lord  Harry,  as  he  opened  the 
parchment,  "Hah!  What  is  this  I  behold  !  1  Thy  Brother  Lord  Ranulph 
lives — '  "  with  a  flashing  eye,  he  drank  in  the  briaf  words  of  that  Royal 
missive. 

The  hand  which  grasped  the  parchment  dropped  by  his  side.  He 
turned  his  face — now  bloodless  and  ashy — toward  the  Foreign  Count, 
who  still  preserved  his  attitude  of  mute  respect,  and  held  his  plumed  cap, 
before  his  face. 

"The  King  writes  me  that  my  Brother,  Lord* Ranulph  lives,  aye,  and 
by  the  Mass  !  that  he  will  be  here  in  a  few  days.  What  say  ye, 
my  good  Knights  ?  Has  not  our  dread  Lord,  been  deceived  by  some  per- 
fidious follower  of  the  Pope  !" 

There  was  wonder  and  consternation  painted  upon  the  faces  of  the 
Knights,  beyond  the  power  of  my  poor  pen  to  describe.  Murmurs  per- 
vaded the  air,  and  old  Ralph  swore  somewhat  blasphemously,  that  he  was 
bewitched,  and  given  over  to  Stahanas  on  account  of  his  sins.  b 

"  Sir  Count,  perchance  you  will  make  plain  this  mystery,"  said  Lord 
Harry,  in  a  tone  by  no  means  bold  or  deep,  while  his  pallid  cheek  and 
quivering  lips,  contrasted  somewhat  strangely  with  his  golden  curls 
and  red-brown  beard.  "  You  have  seen  my  brother,  or  is  this  but  a  merry 
jest  of  the  good  King  ?" 

The  stranger  Count  raised  his  head,  and  the  light  fell  upon  his  pale  vi- 
sage, as  it  was  agitated  by  a  smile  of  singular  sweetness. 

"Brother,  dost  thou  not  know  me,  even  yet?"  he  whispered — "My 
features  I  know  are  changed,  but  methinks  some  pulse  of  our  father's 
blood,  throbbing  about  thy  heart  might  have  told  thee  ere  this,  that  it  was 
I,  Ranulph  thy  Brother !" 

The  gallant  Harry  staggered  back — reeled  wildly  like  one  bereft  of  rea- 
son— and  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor  had  it  not  been  for  the  extended 
arms  of  old  Ralph. 

"  Thou  !"  he  cried  with  chattering  teeth  and  corpse-like  visage,  as  he 
struggled  in  the  arms  of  the  old  knight:  "Thou  my  brother !  Thou, 
Ranulph  !  Nay — nay — Ranulph  is  dead,  Ranulph  has  been  grave-yard 
dust  long,  long  ago.    It  is  all  a  cheat — a  mockery  !" 

Then  it  was  that  the  Stranger,  rising  to  his  full  height,  surveyed  the 
silent  throng,  with  a  calm  gaze  and  a  sad  sweet  smile.  Every  one 
confessed  the  majesty  of  his  presence  and  the  noble  lineage  written  on  his 
brow. 

"  He  does  not  know  me  !"  he  sadly  said,  "  Alas  !  the  woeful  hour  !  I 

come  back  to  the  castle  of  my  fathers  and  mine  own  brother  does  not 

know  me  !"  . 

ft*  * 
He  raised  the  plumed  cap  as  if  to  hide  his  tears. 


492  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

m  Lead  me,"  he  muttered,  in  a  voice  broken  and  hurried,  "  Lead  me  to 

the  old  man,  my  father.    Let  me  feel  his  hands  upon  my  brow  again,  

he  at  least,  will  know  his  long  lost  son  !' 

Silence  reigned  throughout  the  hall,  silence  dead  and  leaden  as  a  Wiz- 
ard's spell.  The  Knights  fixed  their  affrighted  eyes  upon  the  stranger, 
and  with  curdling  blood,  confessed  within  their  inmost  souls,  that  he  was 
indeed  Lord  Ranulph,  or  his  Ghost.  Meanwhile,  Harry  struggling  from 
the  arms  of  the  old  Knight,  tottered  forward  and  extended  his  hand : 

"  Brother— forgive — "  he  gasped—"  I  was  but  a  child,  when  I  saw  thee 
last.    Forgive  and  take  my  hand  !" 

Lord  Ranulph — for  it  was  the  elder  son  of  Baron  Hubert,  in  good  sooth 
—  lifted  his  pale  face  once  more,  and  his  dark  eyes  shone  with  tears,  as 
that  peculiar  smile,  at  once  sad  and  sweet,  hung  on  his  lips. 

"  Thy  hand  my  brother.  Hah  !  It  makes  the  heart  swell,  to  touch  the 
palm  of  a  Mount  Sepulchre  once  more.  Wine,  my  gallant  Sirs,  wine  ! 
For  I  would  pledge  my  brother  in  a  brimming  cup,  and  my  fair  dame, 
shall  press  it  with  her  lips,  ere  he  drinks,  in  token  of  her  sisterly  love  !" 

"  Thy  dame  ?"  exclaimed  Baron  Harry,  and  his  surprise  was  echoed 
by  the  Knight. 

"  Behold  her  !  The  Lady  Eola,  wife  of  Ranulph  of  Mount  Sepulchre  V 
and  from  the  shadows,  came  a  woman  of  beautiful  shape,  clad  in  a  garb 
of  rich  velvet,  with  a  dark  veil  drooping  over  her  face.  She  had  glided 
unperceived  over  the  threshold,  and  now  stood  by  her  husband's  side,  her 
white  hand,  laid  gently  upon  his  mantle.  The  dark  habit  which  she 
wore,  disclosed  the  outlines  of  a  form,  at  once  slender  and  voluptuous, 
while  the  thick  folds  of  her  veil  could  not  altogether  hide  the  dazzling 
brightness  of  her  eyes. 

Beshrew  my  heart,  but  it  was  right  wonderful,  to  behold  the  thunder- 
stricken  faces  of  the  gallant  knights  ! 

"  He  brings  his  good  dame  with  him,  from  other  lands,"  cried  one, 
"'Tis  Venus  herself  in  funeral  garb,  with  a  black  veil  over  her  face  !" 

"A  form  like  Anne  Boleyn !"  exclaimed  another. 

"  And  all  the  dignity  and  presence  of  our  late  Queen  !"  added  a  third. 

Lord  Ranulph  took  a  golden  cup,  brimming  with  old  wine,  from  the 
hand  of  Sir  Ralph,  and  spake  to  the  beautiful  lady,  in  an  unknown  tongue. 
She  answered  in  a  voice,  low  and  sweet,  but  the  wondering  knights,  could 
by  no  means  comprehend  her  words. 

"  The  Lady  Eola  cannot  master  the  rude  syllables  of  our  English 
tongue,"  said  Ranulph,  turning  to  his  brother,  "  But  she  greets  you  as  a 
Brother,  my  true  Harry,  and  consents  to  press  her  lips  to  the  cup,  ere  it 
passes  to  yours,  in  token  of  her  sisterly  love  !" 

True  it  was,  that  the  brave  Harry,  pallid  and  amazed,  looked  not  unlike 
a  man  enchanted.  He  saw  the  white  hand  of  the  beautiful  dame  lift  the 
cup  ;  he  bent  forward  eager  to  gain  a  glimpse  of  her  face,  as  she  parted 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


493 


the  folds  of  her  veil  ;  but  the  sight  of  her  lips,  warm  and  red,  pressing  the 
golden  rim  of  the  goblet,  was  all  that  rewarded  his  gaze. 

And  in  a  moment,  that  white  hand  held  the  cup  towards  him,  and  as 
he  took  it,  their  fingers  slightly  touched  each  other.  'Twas  a  circumstance 
of  no  moment ;  but  that  touch,  slight  as  it  was,  filled  his  blood  with  fire. 

"  Drink,  my  brother,  drink  to  the  return  of  Ranulph,  Lord  of  Mount 
Sepulchre  !  Drink  to  the  Lady  Eola,  his  own  fair  dame,  and  henceforth 
thy  loving  Sister,  Harry !" 

As  he  spoke,  the  Lord  Ranulph  contemplated  his  brother  with  an  earn- 
est look,  while  his  great  forehead,  grew  radiant,  as  with  a  joy  too  deep 
for  utterance. 

Harry  of  Mount  Sepulchre, — no  longer  Lord,  but  simply,  1  the  Lord's 
younger  Brother, — '  slowly  raised  the  cup,  turning  his  gaze  from  the 
veiled  Eola  to  the  Lord  Ranulph,  as  the  golden  rim  touched  his  lip. 

The  golden  rim  touched  his  lip  

From  that  instant  the  place  of  the  brave  Harry,  in  the  Castle  of  his^ 
Race,  was  vacant  forever. 

Even  as  his  lip  touched  the  golden  rim  of  the  cup,  he  fell  dead  at  his 
Brother's  feet,  his  face  pressed  against  the  marble  floor,  and  his  hands 
resting  by  his  side,  without  one  convulsive  tremor.  No  groan  came  from 
his  lips,  as  he  fell,  nor  did  his  eyes  roll  and  glare,  as  if  struggling,  with 
the  night  of  death.  He  touched  the  cup— he  fell.  That  was  all.  Every 
eye  beheld  it.  When  old  Ralph  came  to  him,  thinking  that  he  had  fallen 
into  a  swoon,  and  tried  to  raise  him  from  the  floor,  the  body  slipt  from 
his  grasp  like  a  pulseless  thing  of  wood  or  stone.  The  gray-haired  knight 
turned  him  to  the  light,  and  his  face  was  seen  by  every  eye.  There  was 
no  blackness  on  it,  but  a  rosy  blush  pervaded  the  cheeks,  and  the  eyes, 
fixed  but  not  glassy,  lay  dull  and  leaden,  under  the  half-shut  lids.  He 
was  dead.  The  golden  cup  lay  near  him,  and  a  strong  odour, — like  the 
perfume  of  old  wine,  mingled  with  the  scent  of  laurel  blossoms — pervaded 
the  Hall  of  Palestine. 

Never  in  all  the  world  was  there  such  a  Night  as  this,  whose  every 
hour  was  marked  by  a  Death  or  a  Crime.  The  nameless  wrong  committed 
by  Harry  upon  the  Italian  woman— the  murder  of  the  old  man,  by  the 
Italian  Sorcerer — the  sudden  death  of  Harry,  before  his  brother's  eyes — 
these  deeds  all  took  place  on  the  night,  which  marked  the  return  of  Lord 
Randulph,  to  the  Castle  of  his  ancestors. 

The  hearts  of  the  spectators  were  too  full  for  speech  ;  clad  in  their  fes- 
tival attire,  the  gay  Knights,  gay  no  longer,  looked  in  the  dead  face  of  the 
brave  Harry,  in  dumb  apathy. 

The  veiled  lady  clasped  her  hands,  and  murmured  a  prayer,  in  an  un- 
known tongue  while  a  shudder,  agitated  her  beautiful  shape,  from  head  to 
foot. 

Lord  Ranulph  stood  for  a  moment,  horror-stricken  and  spell-bound  like 


494  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

the  rest,  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  face  of  his  dead  brother,  while  his  broad 
high  forehead  was  darkened  by  a  single  vein,  swelling  upward,  from  be- 
tween the  eyebrows.  At  last  a  smile  broke  over  his  face;  a  smile 
sad  as  a  star-beam  twinkling  through  the  gloom  of  a  charnel : 

"He  is  dead  !  My  Brother?"  he  said  in  a  subdued  tone:  "  He  has 
died  of  a  strange  disease  of  which  I  have  heard  in  foreign  lands.  A  dis- 
ease that  turns  the  avenues  of  the  heart  to  bone,  while  the  cheek  is  full 
of  life.  *Slowly,  silently,  through  the  course  of  long  years,  this  disease 
builds  up  the  channels  of  the  heart,  until  at  last,  when  some  sudden  emo- 
tion, makes  the  blood  bound  like  a  torrent,  'the  work  is  done,'  the  heart 
throbs  no  longer,  and  life  passes  away,  without  a  sigh.  My  poor  brother 
died  of  joy  ;  the  emotion  was  too  strong  for  him  !    A  terrible  disease  !" 

He  knelt  beside  his  dead  brother,  while  old  Ralph  of  Grey-Wolf  mut- 
tered with  an  idiotic  stare  : 

"  A  terrible  disease,  by  the  Mass,  and — a  right  strong  smell  of  laurel 
leaves,  or  laurel  blossoms,  by  my  soul  !" 

And  these  are  the  deeds  which  took  place  on  the  night,  when  Lord  Ra- 
nulph  came  home  to  the  Castle  of  his  fathers.  And  I,  Eustace  Brynne, 
who  have  written  this  history,  which  is  intended  to  be  deposited  in  the 
archives  of  Mount  Sepulchre,  do  hereby  avow,  on  mine  own  knowledge, 
that  these  are  the  deeds  which  were  done,  and  these  the  words  which  were 
spoken,  on  that  fatal  night. 

And  all  other  histories  of  that  night,  and  all  rumors  which  conflict  with 
this  chronicle  are  lies,  born  of  the  Devil  and  the  Pope,  and  uttered  by 
their  minions,  in  order  to  taint  the  good  fame  of  the  House  of  Mount  Se- 
pulchre. So  that  their  lies  may  be  known,  and  branded  forever,  with 
their  proper  infamy,  I  will  here,  add  certain  of  the  rumors,  which  have 
been  raised  by  the  Pope  and  the  Devil  aforesaid,  against  the  House  of 
Mount  Sepulchre. 

I.  That  the  Italian  magician,  and  my  Lord  Rannlph  ivere  the  same 
person.  In  support  of  this  rumor  it  is  stated,  that  my  Lord  Ranulph 
studied  the  black  art  in  outlandish  parts,  and  came  to  the  Court  of  King 
Harry,  disguised  in  his  Sorcerer's  robes,  and  was  there  encountered  by 
Lord  Harry,  who  besought  him  ardently  to  come  to  Mount  Sepulchre,  and 
turn  him  some  lead  into  gold  straightway.  Ranulph  wishing  to  see  with 
his  own  eyes,  how  the  young  Lord  bore  himself,  to  his  Father  and  to  the 
vassals  of  the  Barony,  accepted  the  proposal  of  Baron  Harry,  and  came 
to  the  Castle,  with  his  outlandish  wife,  disguised  as  a  page,  having  at  the 
same  time,  the  letter  of  the  King  about  his  person.    This  is  a  most  atro- 


*  An  anachronism?  Had  Lord  Ranulph  of  Mount  Sepulchre,  any  idea  of  the 
circulation  of  the  blood  ? 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


495 


.  cious  falsehood.  Were  it  to  be  believed,  only  for  a  moment,  we  should 
be  forced  to  regard  Lord  Harry,  as  the  wronger  of  his  brother's  wife  or 
mistress,  and  Lord  Ranulph  as  the  Murderer  of  his  Father.  "FL;  a  fiend- 
ish calumny. 

II.  That  the  death  of  Lady  Eola,  which  took  place  on  the  Twelfth  of 
November,  1539,  (something  more  than  a  year  after  the  events  recorded, 
as  aforesaid,)  ivas  the  ivork  of  her  true  Lord  and  Husband,  Ranulph  of 
Mount  Sepulch re,  because  he  ic as  poisoned  with  the  thought,  that  the  child 
sleeping  upon  her  bosom  was  not  ***'****.  This  is  indeed  a  lie 
worthy  of  Satan  or  the  Pope.  In  order  that  future  generations  may  know 
the  truth  of  this  matter,  I,  Eustace  Brynne,  sometime  Prior  of  the  Monas- 
tery, but  now  a  true  believer  in  our  gracious  King,  have  written  this 
Chronicle,  at  the  command  of  the  noble  Lord  Ranulph  of  Mount  Sepulchre. 

Thus  ended  the  Manuscript,  written  by  the  Monk  of  the  Sixteenth 
Century.  It  was  connected  with  other  Manuscripts,  written  by  various 
hands,  and  narrating  the  history  of  the  House  of  Mount  Sepulchre  from 
age  to  age,  until  the  middle  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

But  the  beautiful  reader  had  not  courage  to  proceed.  The  mass  of 
Manuscripts  fell  from  her  stiffening  fingers,  and  as  they  fluttered  to  the 
floor,  the  harsh  sound  disturbed  the  breathless  stillness  of  the  place. 


•  CHAPTER  FORTY-FIRST. 

WHAT  PAUL  BEHELD  IN  THE  SEALED  CHAMBER. 

"It  is  too  horrible  for  belief!  The  Father  murdered  by  his  OAvn  child, 
the  brother  poisoned  by  the  brother,  and  the  beautiful  woman  sacrificed 
by  a  nameless  outrage.  A  maze  of  misery  and  crime!  It  is  indeed  ter- 
rible— the  very  paper  on  which  these  deeds  are  written,  breathes  of  ihe 
charnel.  But  Paul,  you  turn  your  gaze  away.  You  do  not  look  upon 
me.  Tell  me,  I  beseech  you,  what  has  this  Revelation  to  do  with  your 
fate." 

And  the  beautiful  woman,  whose  death-like  cheek  contrasted  with  her 
raven  hair,  gave  a  wierd  and  spiritual  loveliness  to  that  face,  not  long  ago 
so  ripe  with  passion,  glided  over  the  floor,  with  noiseless  steps,  and  laid 
her  hands  upon  the  shoulders  of  Paul  Ardenheim. 

He  stood  motionless,  his  averted  face  buried  in  his  hands.    He  felt  her 

I 


496  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

touch,  but  did  not  turn  and  look  upon  her,  for  the  nameless  revelations  of  ■ 
the  Sealed  Chamber — revelations  even  more  dark  and  harrowing  than 
those  embodied  in  the  Manuscripts — now  clouded  his  whole  being  with  a 
stifling  horror. 

"  Paul !"  she  whispered — "  I  dare  not  read  farther ;  I  have  not  the 
courage.  The  very  touch  of  those  pages  chills  my  blood.  Speak  to  me, 
Paul.    Tell  me  the  secret  of  this  mystery." 

"Read  on,"  muttered  Paul,  still  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands — "Read 
on,  and  learn  the  history  of  our  race,  and  drink  in,  with  every  page,  some 
portion  of  the  madness  which  has  cursed  my  existence,  since  the  fatal  I 
hour,  when  your  voice — yours — persuaded  me  to  cross  the  threshold  of 
the  forbidden  chamber.    Read  on  !" 

"  Do  you  reproach  me,  Paul  ?"  whispered  the  Wizard's  child. 

He  turned  and  confronted  her,  grasping  her  wrist,  while  the  light  fell 
upon  his  ashen  and  colorless  visage. 

"  Reproach  you  !  No  !  No !  For  so  much  sorcery  there  is  in  your  look, 
so  much  witchcraft  in  your  tone,  that  even  now,  as  I  stand  before  you,  at 
once  conscious  of  your  presence  and  of  my  own  dark  fate,  it  seems  to  me, 
that  for  you  I  would  sacrifice  my  immortal  soul, — yes — at  a  word,  a  look 
from  you  I  would  strike  my  father's  gray  hairs  into  dust!" 

He  had  been  wild, — mad — before,  but  now  his  pale  face  and  settled 
tone,  his  look  at  once  fixed  and  dazzling,  overwhelmed  this  beautiful 
woman  with  a  freezing  awe.  His  wild  reproaches,  his  wandering  ejacu- 
lations, his  eyes  rolling  vaguely,  his  cheeks  flushed  with  passion — all  these 
she  could  have  borne,  and  borne  with  a  secret  triumph — but  this  calm 
madness,  this  conscious  despair,  palsied  every  vein  with  the  leaden  apathy 
of  terror. 

"Take  up  the  dark  record,  once  more,"  he  exclaimed,  while  she  felt 
his  hand,  as  it  clasped  her  wrist,  grow  cold  as  ice:  "  Let  not  the  breath 
of  the  charnel  fright  you,  let  not  the  atmosphere  of  unnatural  crimes  make 
your  soul  afraid.  Read  on!  Learn  the  history  of  our  Race  by  heart; 
steep  your  soul  in  every  damning  detail.  Learn  how  Lord  Ranulph  of 
Mount  Sepulchre,  stained  with  the  blood  of  father  and  brother,  crept  be- 
hind the  chair  of  his  beautiful  wife,  and  sheathed  his  dagger  in  her  bosom, 
even  as  her  babe  was  sleeping  there.  Learn  how  the  man  who  had 
stabbed  his  father,  and  poisoned  his  brother  became  the  Assassin  of  the 
woman,  whose  love  and  life  had  been  mingled  with  his  in  the  veins  of 
that  innocent  child.  Nay,  do  not  tremble  and  turn  pale  ;  you  have  asked 
of  me,  the  Secret  of  the  Sealed  Chamber;  I  will  tell  that  secret,  although 
every  word  costs  me  an  agony,  deeper  than  the  tortures  of  the  damned." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  ;  the 
beautiful  woman  shuddered  as  she  beheld  the  expression  of  his  features. 

"  The  child  was  not  his  own.  The  blood  that  flowed  in  its  veins,  was 
poisoned  in  its  every  throb,  by  his  brother's  unnatural  crime.  Thoughts 


THE;  MONK  OF  THE  W1SSAHIKON 


497 


like  these  cankered  the  soul  of  Ranulph;  his  heart  became  corroded  by 
suspicion.  Therefore,  he  stabbed  his  wife  ;  stabbed  the  pure  woman,  who 
at  least,  had  been  no  partner  in  his  brother's  wrong.  She  was  dead  ;  the 
child  smiled  in  his  face  from  her  mangled  bosom.  But  the  history  of  our 
Race  does  not  end  here.  That  child  grew  to  manhood,  and  became  the 
Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre.  He,  too,  became  a  father:  and  he,  like  his 
Grandsire,  died  by  the  hand  of  his  son.  Since  that  hour,  through  the 
course  of  two  hundred  years,  there  have  been  eight  Lords  of  Mount  Se- 
pulchre, and  every  one  has  gone  to  his  grave  a  Parricide,  slain  by  the 
hand  of  Parricide.  You  will  say  that  there  is  madness  lurking  in  our 
blood,  from  the  moment  of  birth;  you  will  attempt  to  explain  this  red  his- 
tory of  unnatural  murder,  by  the  idea  of  a  constitutional  malady,  trans- 
mitted from  father  to  son,  for  two  hundred  years.  But  no!  no!  Had 
yon  crossed  the  forbidden  threshold,  and  seen  what  I  saw,  and  stood  f;ice 
to  face  with  Fate,  as  I  stood,  hollow  words  like  these  could  never  pass 
your  lips." 

"Paul  !  Your  words  fill  me  with  horror  beyond  the  power  of  utter- 
ance "  cried  the  Wizard's  child,  attempting  to  free  her  wrist  from  the  clasp 
of  his  icy  hand. 

Read  on  !  Take  up  the  blood-red  record  once  more.  You  will  there 
discover,  that  my  father,  the  younger  son  of  this  accursed  House,  soon 
after  the  last  Parricide,  which  took  place  not  more  than  twenty  years  ago, 
determined  to  leave  the  Old  World,  and  bury  himself  and  his  children  in 
the  profound  solitudes  of  the  New.  He  was  resolved  to  save  me,  his 
only  son,  from  the  curse  of  our  house.  Therefore,  he  renounced  the' 
world,  gave  up  his  very  name,  and  crossed  the  Ocean.  No  human  eye 
tracked  his  course,  no  human  eye  recognized  in  the  pale  old  man  of  Wis- 
sahikon,the  Last  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre.  He  had  defied  fate  ;  he  had 
evaded  destiny.  The  hand  of  his  Son  should  never  be  stained  with  the 
guilt  of  Parricide.  This  was  his  thought;  a  thought  which  breathed  a 
blessing  on  his  solitude,  and  turned  the  wild  Wlssahikon  into  the  very 
garden  of  God.  Now  mark  the  sequel.  All  his  plans — elaborated  and 
woven  together  through  the  years  of  a  life-time — were  crushed,  not  in  a 
day,  not  in  an  hour,  but  in  a  moment.  Scattered  to  air,  by  the  breath  of 
a  woman !"  s 

He  fixed  upon  the  Wizard's  daughter  the  light  of  his  eyes,  flashing 
with  scorn,  and  every  lineament  of  his  face  was  agitated  by  a  smile, — a 
smile  which  was  Satanic  in  its  very  mockery  of  joy. 

"A  woman!"  he  repeated;  "  Her  breath  destroyed  the  Hopes  of  a 
life-time."-   Again  he  smiled  in  mockery. 

"  Nay,  you  must  listen.  My  father  had  preserved  that  Record  of  Mount 
Sepulchre,  in  all  his  wanderings.  He  had  concealed  it  within  the  cham- 
ber, whose  door  was  marked  with  a  cross.  It  was  his  thought,  that  his 
Son  should  never  know  the  history  of  the  parricidal  race,  until  the  Father. 


493  PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR 

was  dust.  And  even  then,  this  Son  could  not  be  won  from  his  seclusion, 
into  the  great  world,  by  the  temptations  of  rank  and  power,  for  the  name 
of  Mount  Sepulchre  had  long  ceased  to  the  title  of  his  Kace.  It  was  the 
name  which  our  house  had  borne  in  ages  past,  but  it  had  been  replaced, 
for  a  hundred  years  at  least,  by  other  names  and  more  swelling  titles. 
Therefore,  Paul,  the  son,  reading  that  Chronicle  after  the  death  of  ins 
Father,  would  not  dream  that  his  Race,  or  their  once  immense  possessions^ 
had  an  existence  any  longer.  He  would  only  know,  that  he  was  the  Last 
of  the  Mount  Sepulchres  ;  that  he  was  buried  in  the  forests  of  Wissahi- 
kon  ;  and  that  the  once  boundless  domains  of  his  fathers,  their  Castles  in 
England  and  Germany,  their  gold  counted  by  millions,  and  their  broad 
lands  measured  by  leagues — all  were  now  embodied  in  the — ruined  Block 
House  of  Wissahikon.  That  the  great  name  of  the  Race,  their  fame  en- 
nobled by  titles  only  second  to  Royally,  had  dwindled  down  into  the  name 
of  the  friendless  boy — '  Paul  Ardenheim  !'  " 

Again  he  paused — looked  sadly  in  her  face — while  her  eyes  brightened 
with  a  Thought  which  she  dared  not  speak. 

"  His  race  may  exist  at  this  hour,  in  all  their  wealth  and  power.  An- 
other may  count  his  gold,  and  wear  his  titles,  while  the  true  Lord  remains 
unknown  and  friendless  among  these  forests." 

And  as  Paul  stood  gazing  in  her  face, — his  death-cold  hand  upon  her 
wrist — the  music  from  the  lawn  came  gushing  through  the  window,  like 
the  joyous  peal  of  a  Bridal  Festival. 

"  Read  that  record,  beautiful  woman!"  Paul  continued,  after  a  breathless 
pause.  "  Then  you  will  know  something  of  the  mysteries  of  that  fatal 
chamber;  but  the  full  mystery — the  complete  history  of  the  hour  which 
I  spent  there — I  may  never  tell  to  mortal  ears.  But  listen  !  There, 
within  that  Sealed  Chamber,  which  I  had  entered  by  a  Perjury — ente 
because  the  sorcery  of  your  eyes  and  voice  had  maddened  me — there,  I 
stood  face  to  face  with  Ranulph  of  Mount  Sepulchre,  who  lived  three  hun- 
dred years  ago." 

"  Ranulph  of  Mount  Sepulchre  !  This  is  a  dream  !"  The  hand  which 
:lasped  her  wrist,  had  changed  from  ice  to  fire. 

"  I  stood  face  to  face  with  him,  and  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  heard  his 
voice.  It  was  not  a  Corpse  which  touched  me  with  its  hand — it  was  not 
a  Spirit  evoked  from  the  Sepulchre,  like  Samuel  of  old,  which  conv 
with  me  as  I  stood  enveloped  in  the  horrors  of  that  forbidden  place.  But 
it  seemed  to  me,  as  if  I  stood  in  the  presence  of  a  Corpse,  animated  by  a 
living  Soul.  Even  now,  my  heart  writhes  and  grows  cold  at  the  mere 
remembrance  of  that  hour." 

As  though  the  memory  of  that  incredible  interview,  had  transformed 
him  into  the  very  image  which  his  imagination  pictured — a  dead  bod// 
dinct  with  fib  living  Soul, — Paul  Ardenheim  paused,  his  lips  moved  !>;u 
framed  no  sound  ;  his  form  was  motionless,  his  face  without  life  or  color 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  49(J 

bis  eyes  alone,  shining  with  intense  light,  told  that  the  life  still  lingered 
in  his  breast. 

And  the  Woman  so  imposing  in  her  voluptuous  beauty,  this  incarna- 
tion of  all  that  is  lovely  or  bewitching,  among  the  forms  of  external  na- 
ture, this  creature  whose  touch  was  madness,  whose  kiss  kindled  every 
throb  into  living  flame,  whose  glance  paralyzed  the  reason,  or  only  roused 
it  into  frenzied  action, — even  She  shrank  with  terror  from  the  face  of 
Paul  Ardenheim.  Her  finger  on  her  dewy  lip,  one  hand  placed  upon  her 
breast,  as  if  to  still  its  throbbings,  she  retreated  a  step,  and  gazed  upon 
him  through  the  meshes  of  her  unbound  hair. 

At  this  moment  she  looked  like  Esther,  beautiful  and  voluptuous,  queen- 
like in  form  and  stature,  and  yet  with  an  unutterable  fear,  creeping  through 
every  vein,  from  her  heart  to  her  eyes.  Yes,  she  seemed  like  the  impas- 
sioned Jewess,  summoned  suddenly  from  the  silence  of  her  luxurious 
chamber,  by  the  death-shrieks  of  her  murdered  People,  or  by  the  blind 
anger  of  her  Monarch-Husband. 

"  Paul  you  spoke  with  Ranulph  who  lived  three  hundred  years  ago,"  • 
she  exclaimed  after  a  pause,  and  her  low  voice,  resounded  through  every 
nook  of  the  still  chamber  :  "  You  stood  face  to  face  with  this  living  Soul, 
enshrined  within  the  breast  of  a  Corpse  ?  It  was  a  dream  Paul,  only  a 
dream,  believe  me.  Your  imagination  was  excited  to  madness,  by  the 
revelations  of  this  manuscript." 

Paul  fixed  upon  her  a  vacant  gaze,  which  looked  into  her  eyes,  without 
seeming  conscious  of  her  presence. 

"  I  crossed  the  threshold,  and  at  once  my  light  was  drowned  in  a  lumi- 
nous radiance,  which  shone  around  the  fatal  chamber.  In  the  centre  of 
that  radiance  appeared  the  corpse-like  form,  and  from  the  dead  face,  the 
eyes  gazed  upon  me,  and  at  the  same  time,  filled  the  place  with  light, 
unlike  the  rays  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star,  but  resembling  the  pale  radiance 
which  flutters  over  the  graves  of  the  newly-buried  dead.  And  he  spoke  to 
me;  his  lips  did  not  move,  there  was  no  sound,  and  yet  I  heard  his  voice.  It 
seemed,  as  though  that  Soul,  enshrined  in  the  breast  of  a  Corpse,  con- 
versed with  mine,  in  the  language  of  the  other  World,  without  one  accent 
or  syllable  of  mortal  speech.  Was  this  a  dream  ?  Oftentimes  I  have 
tried  to  hug  that  idea  to  my  soul,  but  in  vain.  It  was  no  dream,  but  re- 
ality, as  cold  and  palpable,  as  that  which  thrills  through  your  frame,  when 
your  hand,  for  the  first  time,  encounters  the  dead  face  of  a  beloved  one." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  words,  Paul  ?"  faltered  the  Wizard's  daughter. 

"  Could  you  look  upon  my  heart,  after  death,  you  would  behold  those 
words  written  there — yes,  stamped  upon  my  very  being. 

'Until  the  last  descendant  of  that  incestuous  Child  is  swept  from  the 
earth,  I  am  condemned  to  live.  From  the  hour,  when  my  hand,  smote 
the  bosom  of  Eola,  until  this  moment,  when  I  stand  face  to  face,  with  you, 
Paul  Ardenheim,  I  have  walked  beside  the  Lords  of  your  race,  and  in- 


300 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR 


fused  the  poison  of  my  accused  existence,  into  their  being.  One  by  one 
they  have  died  ;  the  Parricide  father  by  the  hand  of  the  Parricide  son ; 
it  was  my  Soul,  that  prompted  every  murder;  it  was  I,  that  nerved  every 
arm,  and  I — in  spite  of  all  my  Remorse  —  have  stood  smiling,  while  Par- 
ricide after  Parricide,  was  gathered  to  the  grave-yard  dust. 

'Think  not  to  escape  me,  Paul  of  Ardenheim,  in  whose  soul  I  recog- 
nize some  portion  of  my  own.  Your  father  has  traversed  half  the  globe; 
he  has  forsaken  the  wealth,  the  honor  of  his  race  ;  he  has  reared  you 
afar  from  the  world,  reared  you  in  ignorance  of  your  race,  your  fortunes, 
and  your  very  Name.  But  I,  Ranulph  of  Mount  Sepulchre  have  been 
near  you,  from  the  hour  of  birth  ;  have  watched  every  moment  of  your 
existence  ;  have  loved  you,  as  I  saw  your  Mind  grow  into  shape  and 
power,  and  at  the  appointed  time,  I  will  nerve  your  arm,  for  the  deed  of 
Parricide. 

f  When  the  hour  comes  your  Father  will  die  by  your  hand. 

'  Because  I  have  looked  upon  your  life  with  love,  because  I  have  been 
somewhat  won  from  the  cold  horror  of  my  existence,  by  the  spectacle  of 
a  heart,  so  young  and  brave  as  yours,  nurtured  into  vigor,  even  amid  these 

virgin  solitudes,  do  not  think  that  my  arm  can  spare,  or  my  soul 

relent. 

'  I  can  never  know  the  blessing  of  Death,  until  all — all — of  the  race  of 
the  incestuous  Child,  even  the  child  of  Eola,  are  swept  from  the  face  of 
the  earth. 

'  When  the  last  is  dead,  then,  and  then  only,  I  can  die. 

'  It  is  true,  that  sometimes, — after  long  intervals  of  hopeless  Evil — a 
hope  has  dawned  upon  my  soul.  From  a  woman,  descendant  from  Eola, 
and  like  Eola  in  mind  and  form,  I  may  obtain  the  blessed  words,  which 
will  permit  me  to — die.  Those  words,  nothing  more,  than  the  last  ac- 
cents, which  fell  from  her  lips  ;  accents  which  will  assure  me,  that  she, 
no  willing  partner  in  my  brother's  crime,  and  that  the  child  which  slept 
upon  her  bosom,  as  I  killed  her,  derived  its  life,  from  my  veins.  Yet 
this  Woman  cannot  appear,  until  the  eighth  Lord  of  your  race,  has  fallen 
by  the  blow  of  Parricide.  And  she  must  wear  upon  her  bosom,  a  Medal, 
which  I  hung  around  the  neck  of  my  dead  wife,  and  buried  with  her 
corse,  on  the  Twelfth  of  November,  1539  ;  a  medal,  which  I  had  pre- 
pared in  anticipation  of  her  death,  bearing  her  name,  the  date  of  her  mur- 
der, and  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

'  This  medal,  or  this  embodied  record  of  my  crime,  I  saw  twenty-one 
years  ago  —  saw  it  for  the  first  time,  since  Eola's  death — and  upon  the  breast 
of  a  beautiful  woman.  But  the  Eighth  Lord,  the  head  of  the  eighth  gene- 
ration was  not  yet  dead.  With  the  consciousness  that  this  medal,  was  at 
once,  the  token  of  past  crime  and  future  forgiveness,  I  replaced  it  upon 
ihe  neck  of  the  beautiful  woman,  descended  from  Eola,  and  resolved  to 
<*omplete  the  long  chain  of  Parricide,  with  the  dealh  of  your  father's 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


501 


father,  the  Eighth  Lord  of  Mount  Sepulchre.  He  died,  by  the  hand  of 
your  father's  brother,  but  the  beautiful  Woman  was  dead.  She  was  bu- 
ried in  the  Ocean.  The  medal  lies  there,  with  her  bones.  That  hope 
has  gone  out  in  utter  darkness;  I  am  left  to  my  Remorse  and  to  my  career 
of  Crimes.  % 

'  Do  not  fancy,  that  it  is  an  impalpable  Spirit,  a  vague  form  of  air,  that 
converses  with  you  now.  Paul  Ardenheim  I  live, — have  lived,  for  well- 
nigh  three  hundred  years.  Learn  at  once  the  mystery  of  my  beieg.  When 
I  was  young,  when  I  first  left  my  home  of  Mount  Sepulchre,  for  other 
lands,  a  latent  hope  was  in  my  breast,  that  I  might  one  day,  achieve  the 
great  secret,  for  which  the  Seers  of  ages  had  sought  in  vain,  and  become 
Immortal,  even  upon  this  earth.  The  days  and  nights  of  long  years,  the 
toil  of  my  hand  and  my  brain,  were  surrendered  to  this  search.  At  last, 
beneath  the  foundations  of  old  Rome,  in  the  Catacombs,  those  awful  cities 
of  the  dead,  which  spread  beneath  the  feet  of  living  millions,  I  grasped 
the  Secret ;  the  Problem  of  ages  was  solved  ;  the  Truth  for  which  the 
Seers  of  forty  centuries  had  sought  in  vain,  became  mine.  I  discovered 
the  hidden  principle  which  Men  call  life,  and  even  from  the  forms  of  the 
dead,  I  wrung  the  knowledge,  how  to  perpetuate  that  Life,  and  make  it 
Eternal  even  upon  this  earth. 

1  But  at  the  same  time,  there  passed  from  my  Soul,  all  power  to  believe 
in  another  World  ;  all  consciousness  of  a  race  of  beings,  superior  in  in- 
telligence to  Man  ;  all  knowledge  of  an  all-paternal  Creator,  whom  men 
call  God.  To  me,  from  the  moment  when  the  pulses  of  a  deathless  life, 
stirred  in  my  veins,  there  was  no  longer  Another  World,  nor  a  state  of 
being,  higher  and  better  than  this  earth ;  nor  Saint,  Angel,  nor  God.  In  a 
word,  the  power  to  believe,  passed  from  my  nature ;  I  became  conscious 
that  I  was  to  live  on  this  earth,  while  the  earth  itself  endured  ;  to  grow 
old  in  knowledge  ;  to  become  familiar  with  every  principle  of  the  machi- 
nery which  moves  the  Universe  ;  and  at  the  same  time,  to  be  as  utterly 
incapable  of  Faith — even  Faith  such  as  lights  the  beggar's  heart,  and 
throws  a  halo  round  his  very  rags — as  the  dumb  stones  on  which  I  trod. 

4  Was  this  existence,  this  Life  which  I  myself  had  won,  for  Good  or 
for  Evil  ? 

1  It  seemed  to  me,  as  I  stood  palpitating  with  my  new  being,  amid  the 
damps  and  shadows  of  those  earth-hidden  Cities  of  the  Dead,  that  I  might 
become  the  Destiny  of  mankind.  Watch  over  them,  while  ages  rolled 
away,  and  replace  Superstition,  Bigotry  and  War,  with  the  calm  and  om- 
nipotent Unity  of  Universal  Brotherhood.  That  I  would  reveal  the  great 
secrets  of  the  Universe,  to  a  chosen  few,  and  teach  men  to  love  one  ano- 
ther, by  a  simple  disclosure  of  the  sublime  harmony,  which  pervades  all 
nature,  from  the  Star  that  rolls  surely  on  its  way,  through  an  orbit  of  mil- 
lions of  miles,  to  the  little  flower,  that  only  demands  an  inch  of  earth  and 
a  drop  of  water  for  its  existence.    Yes,  I  said  with  unutterable  rapture,  I 


502 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


will  gradually  lift  mankind  into  my  own  walk  of  Being.  From  year  to 
year,  from  age  to  age,  I  will  swell  the  number  of  my  chosen  band,  and 
encircle  myself  with  men  re-created  and  purified  by  the  Knowledge  of  the 
great  laws  of  the  Universe.  And  at  last,  when  ages  shall  have  passed 
away,  I  will  select  some  one,  superior  to  all  others,  in  love  and  power, 
and  fill  his  veins  with  the  same  immortality  that  throbs  in  mine.  Should 
he  prove  faithless  to  his  trust,  and  use  his  deathless  life  for  purposes  of 
Evil,  I  can,  at  the  worst,  meet  him  in  a  sublime  although  terrible  combat 
— oppose  my  own  immortality  to  his — track  his  footsteps  over  the  globe, 
surround  him  with  the  atmosphere  of  my  Power — point  him  out  to  all 
the  world,  even  to  the  humblest  of  men,  as  the  Wretch  who  would  mar 
the  Divine  Harmony  of  the  Universe,  by  the  spasmodic  throbs  of  his  own 
selfish  ambition: 

4  Divine  Harmony  of  Universe  ? 

'It  is  the  law  that  guides  the  Star  more  surely  on  its  accustomed 
course,  than  your  arm,  in  the  moment  of  full  health,  can  follow  the  impulse 
of  your  Will.  But  let  the  Star  depart  but  a  moment  from  its  orbit,  and 
lo  !  entire  creations  of  Stars,  of  Suns,  of  Worlds,  are  wrecked  in  hopeless 
chaos.  And  the  man  who  suffers  himself  to  perpetrate  a  wrong  upon 
man,  his  brother,  arrests  the  very  Order  of  the  Universe  with  the  deed  ; 
and  creates  a  chaos  more  dark  and  discordant,  in  the  vast  family  of  souls, 
than  the  wandering  Star  in  the  boundless  fraternity  of  Worlds. 

*  Thus  I  mused  beneath  the  foundations  of  old  Rome,  in  the  Cities  of 
the  Dead. 

'It  was  my  purpose,  to  use  my  deathless  existence  for  the  Good  of 
mankind. 

'  Behold  the  manner  in  which  this  purpose  of  boundless  Good  was 
wrecked  into  a  Necessity  of  hopeless  Evil. 

4  A  memory  of  Home  came  over  me.  I  thought  of  my  aged  father,  of 
my  younger  brother ;  I  resolved  to  leave  the  scene  of  my  deathless  toil, 
the  catacombs  which  had  been  the  Alembic  of  my  deathless  life,  and 
return  to  England,  and  look  once  more  upon  the  faces  of  my  people. 

'Eola  was  my  companion.  Her  previous  history  need  not  be  told,  nor 
is  it  for  me  to  relate  the  manner  in  which  her  life  was  first  interwoven 
with  the  life  of  a  man  like  me — a  Student  in  the  vast  labarynth  of  unre- 
vealed  Nature — a  Scholar,  whose  book  was  the  Universe,  whose  Masters 
were  the  dead  Seers  of  forgotten  ages. 

'  But  she  had  joined  her  fate  with  mine.  When  my  brow  was  pale 
with  the  horror  of  the  night-long  watch  among  the  dead,  when  my  eye 
was  mad  with  the  glare  of  Thought— Thought  indulged  and  prolonged  at 
the  expense  of  the  physical  being,  until  the  heart  was  pulseless  and  the 
nerves  palsied — then  Eola,  who  knew  no  learning  but  the  instinct  of 
Woman's  all-trusting  Faith,  would  call  me  back  to  life  with  her  presence, 
wake  the  heart  into  motion  with  her  voice,  thrill  the  nerves  into  serene 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  503 

consciousness  with  her  touch.  In  those  moments,  she  was  to  me  what  a 
calm  lake  is  to  an  arid  landscape, — what  the  eye  is  to  the  human  face, — 
what  the  first  gleam  oflife  was  to  the  visage  of  the  dead  Lazarus. 

1  She  was  beautiful  beyond  all  the  daughters  of  earth.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  pure  Soul,  which  shone  calmly  from  her  eyes,  her  form  would 
have  presented  only  a  type  of  animal  beauty  in  its  most  exciting  shape. 
All  that  you  can  imagine  of  physical  loveliness  was  hers.  The  rounded 
limb,  the  clear  skin,  ripe  with  the  young  blood  of  virgin  passion,  the 
bosom  blooming  with  the  very  fulness  of  life,  the  gesture  that  bewitched 
and  the  voice  that  held  you  dumb  with  its  ever-changing  music, — all  that 
you  can  picture  of  shape,  color,  sound,  life,  combined  in  one  breathing 
Harmony — all  were  hers.  Never  did  the  eye  of  the  sensualist  rest  upon 
a  more  voluptuous  shape — never  did  the  gaze  of  the  devotee  linger  upon  a 
face  more  hallowed  by  calm  and  spiritual  beauty. 

'  Such  was  Eola — a  pure  Soul,  incarnate  in  a  young  and  passionate  form. 

'And  she  was  mine.  Think  not  that  her  lip  had  ever  quivered  to  my 
kiss  ;  do  not  for  a  moment  dream  that  all  this  treasure,  of  untold  loveli- 
ness, ever  became  even  by  a  single  caress,  less  pure,  less  virgin,  than 
when  it  first  came  from  the  hand  of  unpolluted  Nature. 

*  Eola  was  my  virgin-wife.  Never  should  the  rites  of  our  marriage 
ripen  into  the  consummation  of  full  enjoyment,  until  her  Being  became 
deathless  as  my  own,  and  until  the  Wife,  instinct  in  every  vein  with  the 
pulses  of  immortal  life,  might  become  the  Mother  of  a  deathless  child. 

'This  was  my  resolve.  For  I  had  resolved  to  raise  Eola  to  my  own 
sphere  ;  to  lift  her  from  the  decay  that  withers  and  the  death  that  corrodes, 
into  beauty  that  could  never  fade,  and  youth  that  could  never  die. 

'  And  with  this  resolve  impressed  upon  my  being,  I  came  to  England. 
As  the  way-worn  Scholar,  under  a  false  name  and  in  an  humble  disguise, 
I  came  to  my  father's  Home.  Where  I  expected  to  find  an  aged  man,  no 
less  rich  in  years  than  in  the  respect  of  men,  a  Patriarch  encircled  by  his 
grateful  People,  I  only  found  a  blind  old  man,  chained  and  imprisoned, 
like  a  savage  beast.  Where  I  had  hoped  to  meet  an  honorable  Brother, 
with  truth  in  his  heart,  and  the  atmosphere  of  a  generous  soul,  kindling 
noble  deeds  into  life  wherever  he  turned,  I  only  met  a  brutal  Debauchee, 
surrounded  by  brutal  Sensualists,  and  growing  more  debased  every  hour 
in  an  atmosphere  of  pollution.  From  this  wretch  nothing  was  sacred. 
The  poor  man,  the  serf  who  was  forced  to  dig  for  a  crust,  and  barter  life 
itself  for  an  untimely  grave — the  mistaken  vestal,  who  had  thought  to 
crush  all  the  passion  and  the  hope  of  her  young  life,  within  the  walls  of  a 
Convent, — the  good  old  man,  the  Father,  who  for  years  had  looked  for- 
ward to  old  age,  as  the  appropriate  time  for  the  full  development  of  his 
sou's  reverence  and  filial  love — all  these,  alike,  were  the  victims  of  the 
•base  animal,  My  Brother.  The  Serf  to  his  mere  love  of  cruelty  ;  the  Nun 
to  his  brutal  lust ;  the  Father  to  his  no  less  brutal  avarice. 


501  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

'And  this  wretched  animal,  this  creature,  who  ere  his  youth  was  gone, 
had  grown  hoary  in  the  hyena's  appetite,  and  the  tiger's  lust,  — this  Bro- 
ther of  mine,  it  was,  who  mingled  the  pollution  of  his  being  with  the  pure 
life  of  Eola,  and  made  her  bosom  thrill  with  the  life  of  a  child  as  base  as 
himself. 

'  Eola  became  the  Mother  of  his  child,  ************ 

***** 

'  He  had  roused  the  mere  animal  part  of  her  nature — her  soul  was  lost 
in  the  delirium  of  the  gross  and  earthy  senses — she  became  the  partner 
of  his  appetite,  and  the  Mother  of  his  Child. 

4  And,  for  him  I  stained  my  hands  with  my  Father's  blood,  and  stamped 
upon  my  deathless  forehead,  the  hand  of  Cain  ! 

'  Do  you  begin  to  read  the  destiny  of  your  Race,  Paul  of  Ardenheim  ? 
This  woman  whom  I  had  destined  to  become  the  mother  of  a  pure  and 
glorious  Child,  became  the  Mother  of  a  Child,  which  as  it  kindled  into 
life  in  her  breast  was  impressed  in  every  fibre  of  its  existence,  with  the 
terrible  necessity  of  Parricide.  The  Mother  was  conscious  that  my  hand 
had  slain  my  father,  and  this  consciousness  was  instilled  into  her  Child 
before  it  saw  the  light.  This  consciousness  was  the  seed  of  a  rich  har- 
vest of  unnatural  crimes. 

'  The  Child  was  sleeping  on  her  bosom  as  I  raised  the  steel,  which  de- 
prived her  of  life.  There  it  slept  with  its  father's  baseness,  the  latent  im- 
pulse of  Parricide,  and  some  portion  of  its  Mother's  better  nature,  written 
upon  its  stainless  face.  She  died,  but  the  Child  I  could  not  kill,  for  even 
then  a  hope  burned  in  my  soul,  that  the  life  which  beat  in  its  veins  was 
derived  from  mine. 

'  I  resolved  to  permit  it  to  live,  so  that  its  very  life  might  prove  its 
iiveage. 

'It  lived;  it  grew  to  manhood;  it  struggled  awhile  with  temptation, 
soared  awhile  above  the  dust,  and  then  sank  with  open  arms  into  the  em- 
brace of  pollution.  That  child  was  at  last  a  hoary  old  man,  totterins-  to 
the  grave  under  the  triple  burden  of  age,  disease  and  lust.  And,  even  the 
little  space  of  life  permitted  to  the  aged  sinner,  was  coveted  by  his  son. 

The  Son  slew  his  Father  then  the  lineage  of  Eola's  Child  was  no 

longer  a  doubt,  no  more  a  mystery  to  me. 

*  From  that  Child,  Paul  of  Ardenheim,  your  race  have  descended.  In 
vain  have  the  Lords  of  your  Race  attempted  to  escape  the  curse  which 
rested  upon  the  birth  of  that  child — and,  as  for  you — the  purity  of  Eola's 
better  nature  may  shed  a  halo  around  you  for  a  little  while,  but  the  base- 
ness of  my  brother's  blood,  and  the  dark  necessity  of  Parricide  will  work  . 
their  inevitable  results  at  last,  and  like  every  one  of  your  race,  you,  Paul 
of  Ardenheim,  will  sink  into  the  grave  of  the  Sensualist,  with  your  brow 
seared  by  the  mark  of  Cain,  your  hand  red  with  the  dye  of  Parricide.' 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


60S 


Thus  far,  in  a  voice  unbroken  by  a  single  tremor,  had  Paul  Ardenheim 
repeated  the  words  of  the  singular  Being,  whom  he  had  encountered  in 
the  Sealed  Chamber.  As  he  went  on,  his  form  immovable  as  an  image 
of  stone,  his  eye  shining  steadily  from  his  corpse-like  face,  his  voice  hol- 
low and  deep,  but  undisturbed  by  one  pause,  or  sign  of  hesitation,  it 
seemed  to  the  beautiful  woman  that  she  beheld  Ranulph  of  Mount  Sepul- 
chre himself,  that  she  heard  his  own  sad  accents,  repeating  the  details  'of 
his  incredible  history,  while  Paul  Ardenheim  passed  entirely  from  her 
sight. 

But  now  he  paused,  he  hesitated,  overwhelmed  by  emotion  he  was  un- 
able to  proceed,  and  Paul  Ardenheim  once  more  stood  before  her. 

"  The  full  history  of  that  hour  I  dare  not  repeat ;  it  would  strike  me 
dead,  but  to  tell  it  to  human  ears,"  he  resumed,  in  a  faint  and  gasping 
voice  ;  "  He  revealed  to  me,  the  page  of  the  Future,  and  showed  me  the 
gray  hairs  of  my  father,  dabbled  in  blood.  He,  Ranulph  of  Mount  Sepul- 
chre, depicted  the  utter  folly  of  any  attempt  on  my  part  to  evade  Fate,  and 
battle  with  Destiny,  and  yet — and  yet— 

"  'And  yet  there  is  a  Hope  born  of  a  Better  World,  mid  that  Hope  is 
yours  /' 

44  These  words  fell  from  his  lips  the  moment  before  he  disappeared. 
Yes,  in  the  very  bitterness  of  his  mockery,  he  pointed  me  to  Heaven  after 
he  had  surrounded  me  with  the  atmosphere  of  Hell. — Beautiful  woman  ! 
Do  you  now  comprehend  my  destiny  ?"  Paul  grasped  her  hand  ;  his  pale 
cheek  was  tinged  by  a  faint  glow.  44  Do  you  now  understand  the  source 
of  the  Voice,  which  spoke  to  you,  and  bade  you  urge  me  to  my  Despair? 
It  was  the  spirit  of  this  Demon  which  rilled  your  breast,  and  gave  words 
to  your  tongue.  Ranulph  of  Mount  Sepulchre  found  an  instrument  for 
his  purposes  in  you — your  eyes,  your  tones,  the  very  pressure  of  this 
hand  translated  his  infernal  design  into  the  semblance  of  virtue  and  cour- 
age, and  with  a  broken  vow  upon  my  soul,  I  crossed  the  fatal  threshold, 
and  flung  my  soul  into  his  Power.  Had  I  not  covered  myself  with 
perjury  he  could  have  had  no  power  to  move  me.  But  as  it  was,  I  had 
already  proved  his  words,  and  decided  my  destiny  before  I  saw  his  corpse- 
like Face.  It  was  the  perjury  that  wrecked  my  soul.  And,  now  what 
canst  thou  give  me  in  recompense  for  the  guilt  of  that  Broken  vow  ? 
Thou  art  very  beautiful — yes,  thou  art  like  Eola  !  4  Never  did  the  eye  of 
the  Sensualist  rest  upon  a  more  voluptuous  shape — never  did  the  gaze  of 
the  Devotee  linger  'upon  a  face  more  hallowed  by  calm  and  spiritual 
beauty?  And  yet,  were  the  Universe  thine  to  bestow,  thou  couldst  repay 
me  for  the  guilt  of  that  Broken  vow  !" 

And  as  the  words  fell  from  his  lips,  the  music  from  without  came  in 
merry  peals  through  the  curtained  window,  filling  the  chamber  with  its 
bounding  echoes. 

The  Wizard's  daughter  smiled,  and  quietly  surrendered  her  hand  to  the 


506 


PAUL  ARUEJNHE1M;  OR, 


nervous  grasp  of  Paul  Ardenheim.  The  ivory  line  gleamed  through  her 
parted  lips  ;  her  eyes  were  full  of  latent  mirth. 

"  Did  it  never  occur  to  you,  Paul,  that  the  woman  who  loves  you,  was 
no  real  form  of  flesh  and  blood,  but  a  misty  creation  of  the  Demon's  skill? 
A  spirit  sent  by  Ranulph  to  win  you  to  despair?  A  beautiful  Demon 
placed  in  your  path,  by  Ranulph's  power,  and  armed  with  the  fascination 
that  bewilders  only  to  destroy  ?"  m 

She  spoke  laughingly,  but  Paul's  forehead  grew  dark  at  her  words. 

He  dropped  her  hands,  and  retreated  from  her  gaze,  while  his  eyes  were 
chained  to  her  face. 

"  Eola  !"  he  muttered,  with  a  vacant  eye. 

"  Let  me  frame  another  supposition,"  she  spoke  again,  but  her  face  was 
sad,  her  voice  deep  and  thrilling  :  "  You  are  surrounded  by  the  arts  of  a 
Demon,  who  has  lived  three  hundred  years,  and  who  cannot  die  until  he 
has  plunged  you  into  a  vortex  of  unnatural  crimes.  Tell  this  to  the  peo- 
ple of  the  every-day  world,  and  they  will  laugh  at  you  for  a  madman.  I 
will  believe  it;  yes,  I  will  receive  the  Revelations  of  the  Sealed  Chamber 
as  common-place  truth.  But  where  will  you  find  this  demon  ?  In  the 
form  of  the  Woman  who  loves  you,  or  in  the  shrunken  figure  of  that  Old 
Man,  who  has  stolen  you  away  from  the  halls  of  your  fathers, — buried 
you  in  the  shades  of  Wissahikon — surrounded  you  with  incredible  temp- 
tations— poisoned  your  very  blood  with  suspicion  and  madness  ?" 

Paul  gazed  upon  her  in  blank  amazement — 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ?"  he  cried. 

"  Do  you  not  guess  my  meaning?  Of  the  aged  man,  whom  you  call, 
Father  !"  she  whispered  and  clasped  his  hand.  There  was  persuasion  in 
her  tone,  a  calm,  deep  conviction  in  her  eyes. 

"  My  father  !"  Paul  drew  his  hand  from  her  grasp,  and  his  face  was 
stamped  with  unmingled  horror.  "Beware  !"  he  whispered — "You  blas- 
pheme the  Dead." 

"  Ah,  he  is  dead,  then  ?  He  has  disappeared — "  her  lip  curled,  and 
her  eye  flashed  with  the  very  laughter  of  scorn  :  "  Disap>peared  !  First, 
your  Sister  dies  ;  sacrificed  to  his  relentless  vengeance,  and  then  he — 
disappears  I  And,  Paul  Ardenheim,  who  was  driven  forth  from  Wissa- 
hikon, like  a  felon  two  years  and  more  ago,  comes  back  again  to  weep  by 
Lis  Sister's  grave,  and  mourn  forsooth  at  the  disappearance  of  the  Demon 
who  had  deprived  him  of  rank  and  power — of  race  and  Name — and 
planted  in  his  heart  the  fear  of  Parricide.  Man  !  You  are  unworthy  of 
your  Destiny,  for  you  have  yielded  yourself  a  willing  victim  to  the  very 
Demon  whom  you  abhor,  and— it  is  enough  to  bring  a  smile  to  a  cheek 
of  marble — you  have  called  this  Demon  by  the  name  of — «  Father  !'  ' 

"  Woman  !  You  blaspheme  the  dead  !"  cried  Paul  in  a  voice  hoarse 
with  agony,  and  yet  her  words  penetrated  his  soul,  and  overwhelmed  with 
a  Conviction  which  he  could  neither  banish  nor  confute. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


507 


"  I  will  not,  I  dare  not  think  it !"  he  cried,  wringing  his  hands  in  very 
frenzy,  as  a  flood  of  memories,  swept  over  him,  bewildering  every  faculty, 
with  their  confused  voices  :  "  My  father  and  Ranulph  of  Mount  Sepul- 
chre the  same?  No — no — by  the  salvation  of  my  immortal  soul — no! 
It  is  false,  it  is  blasphemous  " 

His  voice  rising  with  all  the  emphasis  of  despair,  mingled  with  the  me- 
%dv,  which  burst  gay  and  thrilling  through  the  curtained  window. 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  for  a  moment,  and  then  started  toward 
the  mirror  with  outstretched  arms  and  distorted  features  : 

"Away!"  he  gasped — "Thou  art  the  Demon.  Thy  voice  whispered 
ruin.  Thine  eyes  looked  Death  into  my  soul.  Thy  very  presence  breathes 
Evil — Remorse — Despair  !  My  father  is  dead  ;  my  sister  sleeps  the  un- 
troubled slumber  of  the  grave,  and  I  am  left  alone  upon  the  earth,  but 
left  to  work  out  a  solemn  duty,  which  permits  no  communion  with  the 
passions  or  hatreds  of  mankind.    Away — I  hate  thee  !" 

His  hands  grasped  the  mirror,  as  he  sought  madly  for  the  secret  spring, 
while  his  face  was  turned  over  his  shoulder. 

"Hate  thee!  Dost  read  it  in  my  eyes?  'Twas  a  Woman  base  and 
beautiful  as  thee,  who  wrecked  the  life  of  Ranulph,  and  bartered  his  eternal 
despair,  for  the  brutal  appetite  of  his  Brother  !  Away  !    Thou  art  Eola  !" 

And  he  sought  for  the  secret  spring  with  trembling  hands. 

The  beautiful  woman,  glided  calmly  to  his  side.  She  did  not  reply  to 
his  reproaches,  nor  return  him  scorn  for  scorn.  Her  eyes  were  downcast; 
her  face  and  bosom  hidden  in  the  folds  of  her  luxuriant  hair. 

"  You  will  leave  me,  Paul,"  she  whispered,  extending  her  hands — 
"Behold  !  The  door  is  open.  Your  way  is  free.  And  yet — "  there  was 
a  tremor  in  her  voice — "  I  would  not  part  in  anger." 

Her  hand  had  touched  his  own,  as  it  sought  for  the  secret  spring.  She 
was  by  his  side  ;  the  hair  which  shadowed  her  face,  waved  against  his 
breast,  swayed  by  the  breeze  which  came  through  the  opened  door,  and 
gave  him  a  glimpse  of  her  faultless  throat,  and  one  white  gleam  of  her 
panting  bosom.  He  could  not  see  her  face  ;  it  was  lost  in  shadow.  But 
a  tear  glittered  upon  that  gleam  of  the  snowy  breast,  and  he  heard  her 
voice  die  away  in  an  inarticulate  murmur. 

Paul  began  to  tremble  ;  he  was  ice  and  flame  by  turns  ;  his  foot  was  on 
the  threshold,  yet  he  lingered  one  moment,  ere  he  left  her  Presence  and 
went  forth  into  the  silence  and  shadow  of  Night. 


i 


508 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SECOND. 

"  TO  NIGHT  I  AM  TO  BE  MARRIED,  PAUL." 

0 

One  moment !    It  passes  ere  the  pen  can  write  the  letters,  and  yet  ages 
of  Thought  may  come  and  go,  within  its  compass. 
One  moment ! 

It  may  be,  only  the  last  pebble  which  tops  the  pyramid,  or  the  pivot  on 
which  a  world  spins  round. 

"  Go  forth,"  she  faltered,  "  But  not  in  anger." 

She  touched  his  hand,  and  clasped  his  fingers  with  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible pressure. 

Paul's  face  was  no  longer  wild  and  distorted  ;  it  was  subdued  by  a 
vague  melancholy,  but  his  heart  beat  tumultuously,  and  he  was  forced  to 
lean  for  support  against  the  frame  of  the  secret  door. 

A  breathless  pause  ensued,  while  she  stood  near  him,  her  face  in  sha- 
dow, while  her  hand  gently  touched  his  own. 

The  door  was  free.  Beyond  was  the  darkness  and  silence  of  night; 
here  Paradise,  made  beautiful  by  Eve. 

Paul  lingered — 

Where  was  the  anger,  which  had  swelled  his  heart,  and  quivered  in 
burning  accents  from  his  tongue  ? 

She  raised  her  face,  and  looked  at  him  silently  through  the  intervals  of  her 
dark  hair  ;  her  lips  moved  as  if  in  the  effort  to  speak,  but  without  a  sound  ; 
and  then  she  stretched  forth  her  arms,  and  sank  upon  his  breast. 

"Tonight,"  she  murmured,  as  she  buried  her  face  upon  his  bosom. 
"To-night  I  am  to  be  married  Paul." 

Her  breast  was  throbbing  against  his  heart;  her  arms  were  round  his 
neck,  her  hair  waved  over  his  arms  and  shoulders.  It  was  as  though 
Hquid  fire  had  been  poured  into  his  veins.  He  gathered  her  form  to  his 
breast  with  one  arm,  and  closed  the  secret  door  with  the  other.  The 
mirror  in  its  place  once  more,  reflected  her  head  pillowed  on  his  breast; 
his  face,  glowing  with  the  fire  and  quivering  with  the  tumult  of  a  sudden 
rapture. 

"  Married  !"  he  echoed,  and — looking  over  her  shoulder,  he  saw  the 
white  couch,  among  its  snowy  curtains,  and  knew  at  once  that  he  beheld 
the  Bridal  Bed. 

He  was  lost  in  a  tumult  of  conflicting  emotions  ;  he  was  mad  with 
boundless  joy. 

"  Thou  wilt  be  my  wife  !"  he  gasped,  "  Thou  so  young  and  beautiful, 
wilt  take  the  nameless  wanderer  to  thy  arms  !" 

S 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


509 


The  dim  luxurious  light  of  that  silent  chamber,  the  pictures  glowing 
from  the  walls,  the  statues  gleaming  from  each  shadowy  recess,  the  music 
bursting  in  merry  peals,  through  the  window,  the  Bridal  Bed,  enshrined 
in  twilight,  all  these  conspired  to  inflame  his  senses,  but  the  Woman  who 
clung  to  his  neck,  and  suffered  her  bosom  to  beat  against  his  breast,  com- 
pleted his  delirium. 

"  My  wife!"  he  cried,  "Forme  these  marriage  guests,  for  me  these 
peals  of  marriage  music,  for  me  this  silent  room,  made  sacred  by  the  Mar- 
riage Bed  !  It  is  too  much — my  brain  is  mad.  For  me  the  wanderer 
without  a  name,  the  outcast  without  one  rood  of  land,  with  no  heritage 
but  Poverty  and  Despair." 

And  then  the  Thought  came  over  his  soul,  that  this  beautiful  woman 
had  discovered  his  real  Name  ;  had  found  the  clue  to  the  tide  and  the 
wealth  of  his  race,  and  planned  this  scene  as  a  merry  surprise,  for  him — 
her  Husband. 

"  Speak  !  Tell  me  the  secret  of  this  mystery  with  thy  lips  ripe  with 
passion.  Tell  it  to  me  with  thine  eyes.  Nay  be  silent.  Do  not  speak, 
or  1  shall  grow  mad  indeed.  Thy  heart  beating  against  mine  own,  speaks 
a  language  which  needs  no  words  to  be  understood." 

She  gently  unwound  her  arms  from  his  neck,  and  removed  his  hand 
from  her  waist,  and  stood  before  him,  radiant,  glowing — with  all  her  love- 
liness about  her  like  a  veil 

"  I  love  you  Paul,"  she  whispered — in  a  measured  voice,  with  a  pause 
between  each  word — and  took  his  hand  :  "Never  can  I  love  any  one  but 
you.  We  will  love  each  other  until  we  are  dead.  In  all  the  world,  there 
is  no  man,  whose  destiny  is  linked  with  mine,  but  you.  We  will  clknb 
the  heighths  of  fame  and  power  together.  I  will  be  near  you,  when  dark- 
ness clouds  your  soul.  I  will  cheer  you  in  the  moment  of  Despair. 
When  there  is  no  resting-place  for  you,  in  all  the  world,  my  bosom  shall 
pillow  your  head.  But  Paul,  I  am  to  be  married  to-night,  but  not  to 
you." 

It  seemed  to  him,  that  he  was  cursed  with  sudden  blindness.  The 
room,  the  lights,  the  Marriage  Bed,  and  the  voluptuous  form,  all  were  lost 
in  thick  darkness.  His  brain  swam  ;  he  heard  sounds  like  the  ringing  of 
death  bells  in  his  ears  ;  he  was  at  once  blind,  mad  and  dumb. 

"  I  am  to  be  married  to-night,  but  not  to  you  !" 

These  words  he  heard  ;  they  sounded  again,  and  again  ;  they  mingled 
with  the  tolling  of  the  death-bells. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  ere  he  saw  clearly  again,  and  tound  himself 
still  in  the  room,  the  Marriage  Bed  before  him,  and  the  beautiful  woman 
by  his  side. 

"  Pity  me!"  he  faltered — "  I  am  in  a  dream.  Soon  I  will  awake,  and  fin  I 
myself  beside  the  Wissahikon,  with  the  moonlight  on  my  face.  Yet  it  is 
a  fearful  dream.    If  I  do  not  soon  awake  1  whl  die." 


510 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR 


Rising  to  her  full  stature,  she  swept  her  dark  hair  aside,  and  revealed 
her  face, — unutterably  beautiful — but  calm  and  pale  as  Death. 

**  It  is  no  dream,  Paul.  It  is  real,  terribly  real.  To-night  I  am  to  be 
married.  Married  to  Wealth,  joined  in  solemn  vows,  uttered  in  the  pre- 
sence of  Heaven,  to  Gold.  The  history  is  intricate  and  long,  but  I  will 
speak  it  Paul,  in  few  words.  A  Rich  man  has  my  father  in  his  power  ; 
all  this  wealth  which  you  behold,  is  hollow  and  fantastic  as  the  gold  of 
the  Arabian  legend  ;  it  shines  brightly,  but  turns  to  withered  leaves,  be- 
fore your  eyes.  This  mansion,  adorned  with  all  the  externals  of  wealth, 
these  lands  by  the  Wissahikon,  nay  the  very  liberty  of  my  father,  are 
shut  up  in  the  Rich  Man's  coffers, — coffined  and  frozen  in  the  charnel 
house  of  'Law.'  My  body,  Paul,  is  to  be  sold  to-night,  in  the  solemn 
auction  of  Marriage  ;  sold  by  the  Priest,  to  pay  the  debt  of  my  father, 
and  secure  his  gray  hairs  from  the  ignominy  of  the  jail.  The  Rich  Man, 
the  creditor  of  my  father  will  purchase  me, — yes,  buy  my  body — but  the 
Soul,  Paul,  the  Soul !  That  at  least  cannot  be  bought;  it  is  free,  as  air 
or  Death  !" 

Paul  did  not  answer.  As  the  first  man  in  Eden,  suddenly  awoke  from 
his  dream  of  innocence,  and  found  himself  naked  and  was  ashamed,  so 
Paul  Ardenheim,  started  up  from  his  wild  dreams,  and  found  himself — 
Poor. 

Poor  !  The  Woman  whom  he  worshipped — for  whom  he  would 
have  bartered  his  Soul — was  to  be  sold,  into  the  arms  of  sanctified  lust, 
for  the  price  of  some  thousands  of  round  and  bright  and  beautiful  doub- 
loons. Could  he  save  her  !  Could  he  redeem  her  body  from  this  un- 
holy traffic  ?  He  could  not  call  one  piece  of  gold  his  own.   He  was  Poor. 

The  agonies  of  the  damned,  are  sometimes  written  in  those  three 
syllables — "  I  am  poor." 

"  Come,"  he  muttered,  as  the  room  swam  round  him,  and  the  death- 
bells  sounded  in  his  ears — "  We  will  leave  this  place.  Some  cabin  by  a 
hill-side,  will  give  us  shelter.  Our  souls  are  rich,  what  need  we  care  for 
the  Gold  that  pampers  the  body  and  damns  the  Soul  ?" 

His  eye  was  vague  and  wandering;  his  accents  broken  and  faint;  he 
spoke  like  a  man  half  roused  from  some  horrible  dream. 

"  Love  in  a  cottage  !"  she  whispered,  while  her  face  was  radiant  with 
that  laughter  of  scorn,  which  gave  a  Satanic  lustre  to  its  beauty.  "  No, 
Paul.  We  are  not  mad  enough  for  that.  Wouldst  like  to  gaze  upon  the 
face  of  a  Child,  and  feel  that  thou  hadst  given  it  being,  with  the  curse  of 
Poverty  upon  its  brow  ?  The  Leper  of  old,  had  no  right  to  love  or  marry; 
the  Leprosy  which  poisoned  his  blood,  he  might  bear  in  the  silence  of 
despair;  it  was  a  sin  darker  than  Parricide,  to  communicate  that  Plague 
to  the  veins  of  a  Child.  Which  is  most  fearful  Paul,  the  Leprosy  which 
corrodes  the  blood,  or  the  Poverty  which  transforms  body  and  soul,  into 
one  hideous  ulcer  ?" 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  VVISSAHIKON. 


511 


Paul  was  still  silent,  but  the  blindness  had  passed  away;  his  eyes  shone 
clear  and  deep  again ;  his  Soul  was  possessed  by  a  fixed  and  irrevocable 
Resolve 

11  To  night  I  am  to  be  married,  Paul.  Hark  !  How  the  marriage  mu- 
sic peals  through  the  window  !  The  Priest  will  say  his  Prayer,  or  rather, 
repeat  the  words  which  make  the  sale  complete.  The  guests  will  throng 
around  the  Bride,  and  while  the  Rich  Man,  contemplates  his  Purchase, 
they  will  prepare  Her,  for  the  consecrated  orgies  of  the  Marriage  Couch. 
This  is  all  fair  ;  is  it  not  ?  Legal,  too,  aye  and  Religious  ?  When  a  Man 
buys  a  thing,  and  gives  his  gold  for  it,  he  has  a  right  to  use  it  as  he  pleases 
— has  he  not  ?  But  hold — "  she  grasped  his  hand,  and  looked  into  his 
eyes  :  "Suppose  the  thing  that  is  sold,  has  a  Soul — a  Will.  Suppose  the 
Woman  bought  with  Gold,  meets  her  Buyer  on  the  threshold  of  the  Bridal 
Chamber,  and  taught  by  his  own  4  Golden  Rule,'  whispers  in  his  ear — 
'You  have  purchased  the  body,  Husband  by  law,  but  Another  has  mar- 
ried the  Soul.  Soul  and  body,  are  not  to  be  separated :  I  am  fearful,  Hus- 
band by  law,  that  you  cannot  enjoy  the  one,  without  the  possession  of  the 
other.  You  have  bought  the  body  with  your  gold  ;  Husband  by  law,  that 
gold  is  now  your  Curse.  For  with  that  gold,  I  will  raise  the  Husband  of 
my  soul,  to  rank  and  power ;  aye  with  your  gold,  I  will  unloose  the  pri- 
son bars  of  Poverty,  and  let  Genius  spread  its  wings,  and  seek  the  Sun. 
Do  not  murmur,  Husband  by  Law;  before  the  world,  I  will  be,  your  Wife. 
I  will  submit  to  be  surveyed,  by  the  noble  and  the  rich,  as  your  Purchase 
But  the  threshold  of  this  chamber,  you  may  never  pass  ;  while  there  is  a 
throb  in  my  veins,  or  a  Soul  in  my  bosom  you  shall  never  mount  that 
Bridal  Bed— Husband  by  law  !'  " 

"  He  will  be  base  enough,  to  hear  this,  and  obey  ?"  murmured  Paul, 
while  his  Resolve  gave  a  terrible  light  to  his  eye,  an  unnatural  glow  to  his 
cheek. 

i4  The  man  who  buys  a  woman  with  his  gold,  and  is  content,  with  lote 
that  is  only  purchased,  is  base  enough,  cowardly  enough,  for  anything". 
And  then  Paul,  do  I  look  like  a  Woman,  who  will  be  foiled  by  a  creature, 
like  this  ?  When  I  look  into  your  eyes,  Paul,  I  feel  that  you  are  the  Mi 
ter  of  my  Soul.  And  shall  I,  armed  with  this  consciousness,  falter  and 
turn  pale,  at  the  cunning  or  the  gold  of  the  Husband  by  Law?" 

Paul  did  not  answer  her  in  words,  but  his  gaze,  spoke  the  purpose  of 
his  soul.  She  was  before  him,  in  all  her  transcendant  loveliness,  a  boh] 
and  fearless  soul  embodied  in  a  voluptuous  shape.  His  bronzed  cheek 
was  growing  with  a  crimson  flush  ;  his  eyes  deep  and  clear  and  yet  flashing 
as  with  liquid  light,  devoured  at  a  glance  the  witchcraft  of  her  face,  the 
warm  palpable  beauty  of  her  virgin  form.  He  extended  his  arms, — he 
drew  her  to  his  breast.  And  girdled  in  that  arm,  with  all  her  life,  throb- 
bing in  her  bosom,  and  throbbing  against  his  breast,  she  felt  his  touch,  as 


512  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

his  hand  gently  parted  her  tresses,  over  her  forehead,  she  felt  his  gaze, — 
burning,  passionate,  mad — as  his  lips  clung  to  her  own. 

And  their  broken  sighs — the  low  murmur  of  their  love,  half-drowned  by 
their  mingling  lips  were  lost  in  the  Marriage  Music,  which  still  pealed 
gaily  through  the  curtained  window. 

And  the  mirror  reflected  their  forms, — her  robes  like  the  driven  snow 
floating  about  his  dark  attire — and  their  faces,  both  impassioned  by  the 
same  glow,  her  eyes  kindling  with  the  fire  of  his  gaze,  her  hair,  streaming 
over  the  arm,  which  held  her  to  his  breast. 

,k  Thou  art  mine,"  he  gasped,  "  And  noiv.    Behold  our  Bridal  Bed." 

And  ere  the  words  had  died  on  his  tongue,  ere  the  kiss  which  answered 
him,  had  sealed  her  full  assent  upon  his  lips,  the  mirror  glided  silently 
aside,  and  two  forms  entered  the  apartment,  with  noiseless  footsteps. 

Reginald  of  Lyndulfe,  gay  and  magnificent  in  his  wedding  attire,  with 
the  pale  face  of  Rolof  Sener,  smiling  coldly  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Leola  !"  cried  the  voice  of  Reginald. 

"  Save  me  !  Reginald  save  me  !"  cried  the  beautiful  woman,  springing 
from  the  arms  of  Paul  — "  Save  me  from  this  villian  !" 

And  Paul  turned  and  saw  her  clinging  to  the  neck  of  Reginald,  her  face, 
stamped  with  terror — aye  with  hatred — -turned  toward  him,  while  the  pale 
visage  of  Rolof  Sener,  smiled  coldly  at  his  side. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-THIRD. 

LEOLA,  PAUL  AND  REGINALD. 

"  Save  me  from  this  villian  !  He  entered  my  chamber,  by  that  secret 
door,  he  assailed  with  threats,  aye  with  violence  !  He  assailed  ray  life 
and  more  than  life — my  honor  !" 

And  the  Wizard's  Daughter  clung,  frightened  and  pale  to  the  neck  of 
Reginald. 

Paul  was  dumb. 

»*  It  is  not  Paul  Ardenheim  that  I  behold.  It  is  some  miserable  cow- 
ard, who  bearing  some  resemblance  to  the  noble  Paul,  has  stolen  his  dress 
and  name.    It  is  not — it  cannot  be  Paul  Ardenheim." 

Reginald's  cheek  was  flushed,  his  blue  eyes  flashing  with  concentrated 
rage,  but  his  tone  was  calm  and  measured,  in  its  very  mockery  of  doubt. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHlkON. 


513 


And  as  he  spoke  he  took  the  hands  which  encircled  his  neck,  and  pressed 
them  gently,  at  the  same  time,  gathering  all  the  sweetness  of  her  volup- 
tuous mouth,  in  a  long  and  passionate  kiss. 
Paul  was  dumb. 

Rolof  Sener,  who  stood  near  the  mirror,  with  folded  arms,  surveyed 
the  three,  with  his  cold  and  passionless  smile.  Here  the  beautiful  wo- 
man, clinging  to  the  neck  of  Reginald,  arrayed  in  his  wedding  dress  ; 
there  Paul  Ardenheim,  standing  alone,  his  arms  hanging  bf  his  side,  his 
face  colorless  and  leaden  as  the  visage  of  death. 

"  Had  I  been  a  moment  later  By  Heaven,  it  makes  my  blood  boil 

to  think  of  it !"  and  Reginald  gazed  fondly — tenderly — in  the  face  of  the 
Wizard's  daughter.  "  Only  a  moment  later,  and  I  should  have  entered 
this  room,  to  find  you  my  Leola,  dishonored  and  a  corpse." 

Again  he  clasped  her  hands,  and  pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  lips. 

Paul  was  dumb. 

Rolof  Sener's  sunken  eyes  began  to  flash  with  peculiar  light,  and  the 
icy  smile  played  around  his  pale  thin  lips,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

"  One  moment,  love,"  whispered  Reginald,  and  he  unwound  the  arms 
of  the  beautiful  woman,  "I  will  punish  this  villian,  who  has  assumed  the 
name  and  dress  of  Paul  Ardenheim,  and  then  Leola — "  he  gazed  fondly 
into  her  eyes — "  the  guests  are  waiting  for  us  in  the  room  below,  and 
every  thing  is  prepared  for  our  Marriage." 

Paul's  chest  began  to  heave  ;  the  color  rushed  to  his  cheek,  and  a 
deadly  light,  glimmered  from  his  bloodshot  eyes. 

"Leola  !"  he  gasped,  and  with  "the  utterance  of  that  fatal  name,  all  the 
mystery  of  this  scene,  was  revealed  to  his  soul.  When  the  word  had 
passed  his  lips  he  was  pale  and  dumb  again. 

Reginald  resigned  the  arm  of  Leola,  and  crossed  the  floor,  until  he 
stood  face  to  face  with  Paul.  Rolof  Sener  smiled  as  he  remarked  the 
contrast.  The  muscular  yet  graceful  form  of  the  Monk  of  Wissahikon. 
clad  in  the  garb  of  a  Heidelberg  Student ;  a  garb  worn  with  travel,  and 
bearing  in  every  detail,  the  unmistakable  indications  of  Poverty  :  the  mus- 
cular and  military  figure  of  the  Lord,  attired  in  the  costume  of  a  wealthy 
gentleman,  on  the  eve  of  marriage  ;  a  costume  of  silk  and  velvet,  adorned 
vith  jewels,  and  eloquent  of  Gold.  Reginald's  chesnut  hair,  touched  by 
the  hand  of  his  valet,  and  carefully  dressed  after  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
relieved  with  its  powdered  locks,  his  clear  blonde  complexion;  Paul's 
dark  hair,  flowed  wildly  aside  from  his  bfWze  visage,  and  only  made  his 
cheek  seem  paler,  his  eyes  more  intensely  bright. 

This  was  the  contrast  which  fixed  the  icy  smile  on  Rolof  Sener's  lips. 

"As  regards  brute  strength,  they  seem  fairly  matched,"  he  muttered, 
"  Only  Paul  seems  palsied  in  every  nerve,  while  Reginald  is  stronger  than 
ever,  with  settled  rage." 

33 


514 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


Leola  clasped  her  hands,  and  awaited  the  issue,  without  the  power  to 
stir  from  the  spot  where  she  stood. 

Reginald  stood  face  to  face  with  Paul,  and  surveyed  him  from  head  to 
foot,  with  a  glance  of  overwhelming  scorn.  Paul  returned  his  ga'ze,  with 
a  vacant  and  apathetic  stare.  For  a  moment  neither  spoke;  the  color 
went  and  came  on  Paul's  bronzed  cheek  ;  now  he  was  panting  and  gasp- 
ing as  if  for  life,  and  now  pale  and  immovable  as  the  dead;  while  Regi- 
nald's cheek  giowed  into  one  scarlet  flush,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  settled 
hate.    At  last  he  broke  the  stillness  

"  Paul  Ardenheim  !"  he  whispered,  hissing  that  name  through  his  set 
teeth,  as  though  it  was  in  itself  the  bitterest  scorn,  that  his  rage  could 
utter. 

Paul  did  not  answer — did  not  move — his  eyes  was  fixed  upon  the  floor. 

"  Speak  !  Speak  Paul!  Make  but  the  lamest  excuse;  frame  but  the 
basest  apology,  and  I  will  listen  patiently.  In  a  moment  my  servants  will 
hurl  you  from  this  room  and  scourge  you  from  the  house.  Speak  !  I  am 
waiting — with  patience — am  I  not?  What  means  your  presence  in  this 
chamber  ?" 

Reginald  bent  forward  as  he  spoke,  until  his  breath  inflamed  by  rage, 
fanned  the  very  cheek  of  the  Monk  of  Wissahikon. 

Paul  stood  motionless  and  dumb,  with  his  eyes  cast  to  the  floor. 

Rolof  Sener  smiled  his  icy  smile,  as  he  stood  beside  the  mirror.  As 
for  Leola,  with  her  ringer  pressed  upon  her  bloodless  lip,  and  her  entire 
frame  quivering  like  a  tigress,  about  to  dart  upon  its  prey,  she  silently 
awaited  the  end  of  his  tragedy. 

"You  are  my  friend,  Paul,"  whispered  Reginald,  with  scorn  in  his 
look  and  in  every  accent.    "  Do  you  remember  our  vow  ?" 

Paul  shuddered. 

"We  will  be  true  to  each  other,  and  in  no  extremity  or  danger  desert 
each  other,  but  cherish  forever  the  solemn  symbol  pf  the  Broken  but  not 
divided  Coin — broken  not  divided  for  its  seperate  pieces  are  moved  by  tioo 
hearts,  joined  in  one  byfhe  holy  tie  of  Brotherhood.  Do  you  remember 
it,  Brother  Paul?    Quite  romantic — eh?" 

Paul  raised  his  eyes,  as  if  about  to  speak,  and  at  the  same  moment 
Leola  started  one  step  forward,  and  her  gaze  encountered  the  eyes  of  the 
Monk  of  Wissahikon.  That  look  was  unperceived  by  Reginald.  Paul 
felt  it  to  the  inmost  core  of  his  heart,  and  his  pale  face,  glowed  into  life 
again.  Rolof  saw  it  and  smiled.  No  words  can  describe  it,  for  the  whole 
being  of  Leola,  was  embodied  in  that -single  glance.  It  was  passion,  it 
was  entreaty,  it  was  madness.  It  said,to  Paul,  '  Spare  me  !  And  at  the 
proper  moment  I  will  tell  you  all !    Spare  me!    For  I  am  thine!" 

Paul  therefore,,  although  his  heart  beat  madly  against  his  breast,  was 
silent  as  the  dead. 

"You  still  wear  the  Broken  Coin  about  your  heart?"  cried  Reginald 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


515 


surprise  and  rage,  struggling  for  the  mastery  on  his  face:  "And  with  that 
Coin  upon  your  heart,  you  stole  coward-like  into  this  chamber,  and  at- 
tempted the  dishonor  of  my  Wife." 

"  Your  wife  !"#  ejaculated  Paul,  and  then  again  that  look  from  the 

flashing  eyes  of  Leola. 

"  My  betrothed,"  answered  Reginald,  "  In  a  few  moments — after  my 
servants  have  scourged  you  from  the  mansion,  mark  ye — she  will  be  my 
wife." 

Reginald  placed  his  hand  within  the  ruffled  lace,  which  fluttered  between 
his  silken  waistcoat  and  his  breast,  and  in  an  instant,  drew  forth  his  half 
of  the  Broken  Coin.  He  cast  it  at  the  feet  of  Paul,  exclaiming,  "Take 
it  up,  my  Brother  !    It  will  serve  to  remind  you  of  our  vow." 

Paul  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  he  started  forward  as  if  his  agony  had 
at  last  unsealed  his  lips,  but  looking  over  the  shoulder  of  Reginald  he 
again  encountered  Leola's  gaze.  He  was  dumb  once  more.  He  knelt  in 
silence,  took  the  Broken  Coin,  and  placed  it  within  his  garment,  close  to 
his  heart. 

The  moment  rapidly  drew  near,  when  Reginald's  rage  at  first  settled 
into  a  tone  of  biting  sarcasm,  was  to  burst  all  bonds,  and  vent  itself  in 
loud  reproaches,  perchance,  in  dishonorable  blows. 

«*  Thou  paltry  knave  !"  he  cried,  "  Did  I  not  feed  thee  of  my  bread, 
and  give  thee  to  drink  of  my  cup  ?  Thou  to  meditate  an  act  like  this  ? 
Beggar !  Did  I  not  share  my  purse  with  thee,  and  clothe  thy  coward's 
form,  with  the  very  garment,  which  it  now  wears  ?" 

The  cup  of  Paul's  agony  at  last  was  full.  Scorned  for  his  treachery, 
insulted  for  his  cowardice,  and  now,  tainted  with  his — Poverty. 

"Iam  poor!"  he  muttered  wildly,  and  fixed  his  blood-shot  eyes  oi\ 
Reginald's  face,  his  arms  quivering  to  the  very  fingers  as  with  a  spasm. 
Was  he  about  to  grapple  with  the  young  Lord,  and  trample  him  beneath 
his  feet  ? 

Roiof  Sener  smiled. 

Leola  crossed  the  floor  with  noiseless  steps,  and  stole  gently  behind 
Reginald,  winding  her  arms  around  his  neck  as  she  whispered  in  his  ear* 

but  at  the  same  time,  gazing  steadily  into  the  very  eyes  of  Paul  Arden- 
keim. 

"  Do  not  be  angry  with  the  poor  knave,  Reginald,"  she  whispered — 
"Do  not  so  far  forget  yourself  as  to  strike  him.  This  gentleman  who 
stands  near  us,  and  whom  I  have  seen  to-day  before,  will  doubtless  charge 
himself  with  the  care  of  the  poor  wretch.  Will  you  not,  good  Rolof  ? 
Thrust  him  forth  by  the  secret  stairway,  and  our  guests  will  not  be  dis- 
turbed by  the  scandal  of  his  presence.    For  my  sake,  Reginald  !" 

And  her  look  which  flashed  into  Paul's  very  soul,  spoke  to  him,  as  her 
voice  spoke  to  Reginald  : 

."  Spare  me !    I  am  thine !   When  the  time  comes,  I  will  tell  you  alll" 


516 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


"Away  Leoia  !"  cried  Reginald,  thrusting  her  gently  from  his  side: 
"  This  knave  shall  answer  to  me,  and  without  delay.  Speak,  coward  ! 
If  within  your  craven  form,  there  yet  lingers  one  throb  of  manhood,  speak 
and  answer  me  !    Have.you  no  word  to  excuse  this  outrage  ?" 

Paul  raised  his  form  to  its  full  stature,  and  surveyed  Reginald  with 
steady  look,  at  the  same  time  wiping  the  cold  sweat  from  his  forehead. 
But  he  did  not  speak.  There  was  a  spell  upon  his  tongue,  upon  his  blood, 
upon  his  Soul.    It  was  the  Soul  of  Leola  flashing  from  her  eyes. 

Rolof  Sener  advanced;  spoke  a  few  brief  words;  extended  his  hands, 
and  then  retreated  to  his  former  position  near  the  mirror.  It  was  but  the 
work  of  an  instant,  and  yet  his  extended  hands,  placed  a  sword  in  the 
hands  of  Reginald  and  Paul,  and  the  words  which  he  had  spoken  were 
full  of  meaning. 

44  Do  not  forget  that  you  are  gentlemen.  There  are  two  swords.  The 
peal  of  the  Marriage  Music  will  drown  their  clashing.  Leave  scolding  to 
women.  The  outrage  was  attempted  in  this  chamber,  and  here  it  must 
be  atoned  for." 

Reginald  surveyed  his  sword,  with  an  exclamation  of  joy,  as  wild  as 
incoherent.  Paul  felt  the  hilt  in  his  grasp,  saw  the  sharp  blade  glitter  in 
the  light,  and  with  an  involuntary  glance,  measured  the  form  of  his 
antagonist. 

44  Defend  yourself !"  cried  Reginald,  glowing  at  once  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  muscular  power,  and  with  the  fury  of  revenge :  44  Come  ! 
This  matter  can  be  settled  in  a  moment!" 

Had  Rolof  Sener  been  a  Demon,  he  could  not  have  looked  more  coldly 
calm,  or  more  serenely  delighted  than  at  the  present  moment. 

As  for  Leola,  like  some  beautiful  Statue  of  Terror,  she  stood  rooted  to 
the  floor,  her  hands  hanging  stiffly  by  her  side,  while  her  eyes  flashed 
vividly  in  her  death-like  countenance. 

Paul  grasped  the  sword,  and  his  blood-shot  eye  brightened  with  a  fero- 
cious instinct.  He  gazed  upon  the  breast  of  Reginald,  gay  with  marriage 
attire,  and  seemed  to  meditate  the  blow,  which  would  crimson  that  mar- 
riage attire  with  the  Bridegroom's  blood.  He  had  forgotten  the  solemn 
mission  which  forever  separated  him  from  the  loves  and  hatreds  of  man- 
kind; forgotten  his  dead  Father,  and  the  stern  Prophecy  uttered  by  the 
Living-Corpse  in  the  silence  of  the  Sealed  Chamber;  lie  was  only  con- 
scious of  the  three-fold  taunt  of  treachery,  cowardice,  and  poverty.  His 
blood  bounded  once  more  in  his  veins,  as  he  felt  that  sword  hilt  in  his 
grasp  ;  the  lust  of  bloodshed  possessed  him  from  head  to  foot.  He  mea- 
sured his  antagonist,  and  stood  ready — to  kill. 

44  !  ome — it  is  enough — "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  almost  inaudible,  while 
his  discolored  ovfb;  lis  gave  an  unnatural  look  to  his  visage — 44  Here, 
beside  the  Bridal  Bed,  thou  shalt  die." 

And  at  the  same  instant,  his  sword  fell  from  his  nerveless  hand,  and 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  517 

clattered  at  his  feet.  He  caught  the  gaze  of  Leola, — that  look  unloosed 
his  iron  grasp— and  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  he  stood  gazing  vacantly 
upon  his  fallen  sword. 

"  Coward  !  Said  I  not  so  ?  He  dare  not  confront  his  Brother  Regi- 
nald.— Thus — thus — I  inflict  upon  you,  the  last  shame  which  might  even 
stir  a  craven  into  manhood." 

And  he  struck  Paul  across  the  shoulder  with  his  sword ;  not  with  the 
*»dge,  as  he  would  strike  a  man,  but  with  the  side  of  the  blade  as  he  would 
strike  a  dog. 

Then  the  smile  which  had  lingered  about  Rolof 's  lips,  mounted  to  his 
eyes,  and  radiated  over  his  massive  forehead. 

Paul  calmly  folded  his  arms — calmly,  although  his  chest  was  swelling 
with  fearful  agony — and  looked  Reginald  in  the  eyes. 

"  Strike  higher  next  time  :"  he  quietly  said,  "  Let  the  scar  upon  my  fore- 
head, direct  your  aim." 

The  scene  which  then  occurred  defies  all  power  of  description.  Even 
as  Paul,  raising  himself  to  his  full  stature,  placed  his  finger  upon  the  scar, 
while  a  singular  calmness  overspread  his  face;  even  as  he  spoke  of  that 
scar,  which  had  been  received  in  the  defence  of  his  friend's  life,  Reginald, 
blinded  by  his  rage,  raised  the  sword,  and  struck  the  defenceless  man 
across  the  forehead.  As  before,  he  used  not  the  edge,  but  the  side  of  his 
sword.  Still,  the  blow  was  violent,  and  the  scar  received  for  Reginald, 
bled  afresh. 

Paul,  with  the  blood  upon  his  forehead,  staggered  to  and  fro  for  a  mo- 
ment, then,  conquered  as  much  by  his  agony  as  by  the^low,  fell  like  a 
dead  man  to  the  floor. 

His  arms  were  outspread  without  life  or  motion,  and  his  ashen  face, 
with  the  features  fixed  as  if  in  death,  was  half-concealed  by  his  dark  hair, 
which  was  damp  and  matted  with  his  blood. 

Reginald  struck  the  blow,  and  before  a  moment  passed,  stood  gazing 
upon  the  prostrate  form,  the  sword  still  clenched  in  his  right  hand.  Near 
him  Leola,  without  the  power  to  speak  or  move,  her  hands  clasped,  and 
her  head  bowed  on  her  breast,  while  Rolof  Sener,  in  front  of  the  mirror, 
looked  on  the  scene  with  his  brilliant  eyes  and  icy  smile. 

For  a  moment,  something  like  regret  struggled  with  the  mad  anger  of 
Reginald's  face,  as  he  surveyed  that  noble  forehead,  half-hidden  by  the 
dark  hair  drenched  in  blood. 

But  Rolof  Sener,  gliding  over  the  floor  with  a  soundless  step,  was  at 
his  side : 

'«  Reginald,  let  us  remove  the  body,"  he  whispered,  in  his  softest  tone. 

R  sginald  felt  an  unknown  fear  creep  through  his  veins  ;  he  cast  his 
eyes  to  the  floor,  and  trembled  in  every  nerve.  For  the  words  of  Rolof 
Sener  told  him,  that  he  beheld  not  a  living  man, —  stunned  by  a  sudden 
blow— but  a  Corpse 


f 

518  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"  He  is  dead,"  whispered  Rolof,  "  He  died,  not  so  much  by  your  hand, 
as  from  the  breaking  of  his  proud  heart.  'Twas  a  noble  fellow,  after  all. 
And  the  scar — eh,  Reginald?  Received  in  your  defence,  when  he  saved 
your  life  ?  But  come,  we  will  remove  the  body,  and  to-morrow  this  mat- 
ter may  be  duly  explained  to  the  wedding  guests.  There  is  no  time  to  be 
lost  — quick,  Reginald!"  N 

Reginald  wondered  to  hear  him  speak  thus  in  the  presence  of  Leola. 
He  turned  to  look  upon  her  and  mark  the  expression  of  her  face,  but 
Leola  had  fallen  in  a  swoon.  Without  a  sigh,  like  a  flower  broken  on  its 
stem,  she  had  sunk  insensible,  her  hair  waving  over  her  face  as  she  fell. 

"  She  will  not  awake  until  we  return,"  whispered  Rolof,  "  And  we  can 
tell  her  a  merry  story,  how  we  scourged  the  *  Monk'  from  her  father's 
grounds." 

And  without  another  word,  they  bore  the  body  of  Paul  Ardenheim 
through  the  secret  door  and  down  the  narrow  stairway.  We  will  not 
aver,  that  Reginald's  hands  did  not  tremble  as  he  grasped  the  body  of  his 
dead  4  Brother,'  nor  dare  we  assert  that  his  heart  did  not  grow  cold  as  he 
felt  the  head  of  Paul  upon  his  breast.  But  the  moment  before  they  went 
from  the  light  into  the  dark  stairway,  Reginald,  gazing  upon  the  face  of 
Rolof — illumined  in  every  feature  by  that  light,  and  thrown  distinctly  into 
view  by  the  darkness  of  the  stairway — felt  something  like  a  dim  memory 
flit  over  his  brain.  It  was  a  remarkable  visage,  you  will  remember,  its 
thin  lips  stamped  with  that  eternal  smile,  with  its  great  forehead  relieved 
by  short  gray  hair, — a  single  lock  falling  down  the  centre — its  eyes  sunken 
deep,  yet  gleaming  with  dazzling  lustre,  and  lighting  up  a  visage  whose 
colorless  complexion  reminded  you  of  the  waxen  face  of  the  dead. 

"I  have  seen  that  face  among  the  family  portraits  of  our  Race,"  the 
thought  flashed  over  the  mind  of  the  young  Lord — "  And  it  looks  like  the 
face  of  Ranulph-John,  who  was  found  dead  beside  the  dead  body  of  my 
Grandsire." 

And  thus  they  took  the  body  of  Paul  Ardenheim  from  the  voluptuous 
light  of  Leola's  chamber,  into  the  silence  and  darkness  of  the  summer 
night.  The  marriage  music  which  smote  their  ears,  fell  cold  and  dead 
upon  his  pulseless  brain.  And  the  light,  which  came  in  fitful  rays  through 
the  shrubbery  which  encircled  the  opening  of  the  secret,  stairway,  shone 
upon  his  marble  visage  and  dark  hair  drenched  with  blood. 

Meanwhile  Leola,  stretched  insensible  upon  the  floor  of  her  Bridal 
Chamber,  with  her  dark  hair  waving  over  her  face,  was  all  unconscious 
that  the  Rich  Man,  who  had  bought  her  with  his  Gold,  had  borne  away 
the  lifeless  body  of  Paul,  the  Husband  of  her  Soul. 

It  was  not  many  moments  ere  Reginald  again  stood  in  the  secret  door, 
gazing  upon  the  voluptuous  images  of  Leola's  chamber,  ere  his  footstep 
crossed  its  threshold.  His  eye  lingered  for  awhile  upon  the  statues 
gleaming  from  each  recess,  upon  the  pictured  walls,  wrapt  in  luxurious 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON  519 

light,  but  rested  last  of  all,  upon  the  Bridal  Bed,  half-hidden  in  twilight 
gloom.  Then  all  the  pallor  was  gone  from  his  face,  and  the  smile  of  his 
red  lip,  the  gleam  of  his  deep  blue  eyes,  the  heaving  of  his  broad  chest, 
all  told,  that  his  thoughts  had  passed  from  the  dead  Paul  to  the  living 
Leola. 

"And  ere  an  hour  passes,  she  will  be  mine.  The  wedding  guests  are 
waiting,  even  now ;  and  the  good  Clergyman,  the  Reverend  Jacopo  ! 
stands  impatient,  book  in  hand,  and  eye  cast  toward  the  floor. 

And  the  handsome  Reginald  smiled  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  and 
looked  around,  impatient  for  Leola's  bewitching  glance. 

Leola,  however,  had  gone  from  the  Bridal  Chamber. 

Reginald's  face  manifested  something  like  disappointment,  but  sinking 
in  a  chair,  with  his  back  to  the  secret  door,  he  surrendered  himself  to  his 
thoughts. 

"  She  has  gone  to  array  herself  for  the  marriage  ceremony,"  he  thought, 
and  a  smile  crossed  his  lips — "  The  most  beautiful  woman  1  ever  beheld! 
A  good  friend,  that  Rolof,  for,when  my  father  storms  and  talks  of  an  ill- 
assorted  marriage,  Rolof  will  quietly  point  to  Jacopo,  the  amateur  clergy- 
man. And  he  lies  dead,  out  yonder,  in  the  darkness,  with  his  bloody  fore- 
head against  the  damp  grass.  Twice  he  saved  my  life.  Once  on  the 
Wissahikon,  when  the  huntsman's  knife  was  at  my  throat,  and  again  in 
the  streets  of  London.  Dead,  now  !  I  have  always  had  a  lurking  fear? 
although  I  never  confessed  it  to  myself,  that  the  man  would  be  dangerous 
to  me  some  day  or  other.    But  now  he  is  dead.*' 

You  must  not  imagine  that  thoughts  like  these  found  utterance  in  words, 
for  even  as  they  crowded  upon  him,  in  all  their  vivid  hues,  his  lips  spoke 
a  far  different  language.  / 

"  Leola,  the  beautiful !"  he  said,  aloud,  "  She  will  be  mine,  ere  an  hour 
passes,  and  we  will  be  happy  together,  here  on  the  Wissahikon.  He  is 
not  dead — no  by  Heaven  !  Only  a  fainting  fit ;  it  was  a  hard  blow,  but  it 
could  not  kill.  But  I  must  leave  this  place — ha,  ha  !  It  would  not  do 
for  me  to  be  summoned  to  the  marriage,  from  the  Bridal  Chamber,  and 
therefore,  I  will  make  my  retreat  by  this  passage.  I  can  enter  the  hall 
door,  and  tell  my  good  friends,  that  I  have  been  taking  a  solitary  stroll  by 
moonlight.    That  will  do.    Pshaw !    He  is  not  dead  !" 

He  rose,  and  turned  toward  the  secret  doorway.  He  made  but  a  step 
forward,  when  a  new  wonder  paralyzed  his  entire  frame,  and  drove  the 
hues  of  passion  from  his  handsome  cheek. 

The  frame  of  the  doorway  was  occupied  by  a  beautiful  picture.  Had 
the  hand  of  Rolof  Sener  stretched  the  canvass  there,  and  placed  before 
him,  this  Picture  which  smote  his  heart,  no  less  with  its  calm  beauty  than 
with  its  terrible  memory  ?  Or  was  it  an  Apparition  from  the  shadows  of 
the  Other  World. 

It  was  the  picture  of  a  young  woman,  whose  brown  hair  was  gathered 


520  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

in  a*dark  and  glossy  mass,  on  either  side  of  a  serenely  beautiful  face. 
Eyes  of  deep  and  tranquil  hazel  lighted  that  face,  and  gave  an  expression 
pure  and  virgin,  to  the  warm  cheeks  and  ripe  and  dewy  lips.  The  form 
was  young,  graceful,  and  yet  swelling  in  every  outline  with  the  ripe  love- 
liness of  womanhood — but  womanhood  that  has  only  a  moment  passed 
from  maidenhood  into  perfect  bloom. 
It  was  a  picture  of  Madeline. 

"Madeline  !"  faltered  Reginald,  as  the  blood  left  his  cheek,  and  gathered 
in  tumultuous  throbs  about  his  heart. 

And  then  the  Picture  moved  from  its  frame,  and  came  forward  into  the 
chamber,  and  spread  forth  its  arms,  from  beneath  the  dark  mantle  which 
floated  over  its  white  robes,  and  fell  upon  Reginald's  neck  with  tears  in" 
its  hazel  eyes. 

"It  is  Madeline!  No  ghost,  but  Madeline  living,  and  more  beautiful 
than  ever !" 

And  he  pressed  his  kiss  upon  her  lips,  even  as  she  clung  to  his  neck, 
and  wept  upon  his  bosom.  It  was  not  a  Brother's  kiss.  It  was  warm 
and  passionate  and  clinging;  the  kiss  of  a  Sensualist.  Then  he  raised 
her  face  from  his  breast,  and  gazed  long  and  ardently  upon  its  beauty, 
bathed  as  it  was,  in  tears,  and  held  her  form  at  arm's  length,  and  with  a 
gaze  as  long  and  ardent,  surveyed  its  ripe  and  womanly  outlines.  She 
was  not  so  queenly  as  Leola.  There  was  not  the  witchcraft  in  her  eyes, 
that  gave  such  overwhelming  power  to  Leola's  glance.  There  was  no  wild 
ambition  on  her  young  brow,  no  daring  Thought  written  upon  the  warm 
lineaments  of  her  young  face.  She  was  but  a  Woman,  with  only  a  wo- 
man's purity  and  a  woman's  holiest  instincts  written  upon  her  counte- 
nance, while  Leola  was  a  bold  and  fearless  Spirit,  embodied  in  a  voluptu- 
ous form.  And  yet  there  was  something  in  the  very  Innocence,  something 
in  the  very  Womanliness  of  Madeline,  that  roused  the  senses  of  the  young 
Sensualist,  and  made  his  blood  beat  with  a  wilder  throb,  than  ever  stirred 
his  breast  when  encompassed  by  Leola's  surpassing  loveliness. 

And  she  was  not  his  Sister ;  she  was  only  Madeline,  the  daughter  of 
Catherine  Conwell,  the  Poor  Woman. 

A  thousand  vague  plans  for  the  Future,  already  shone  in  Reginald's 
sensual  gaze,  plans  which  rushed  upon  him  in  a  flood — vague,  misty  and 
shapeless — yet  all  fraught  with  danger  to  the  innocence  of  Made- 
line. 

"  My  beautiful  bird,"  he  cried  gaily,  "  and  have  I  found  you  again  ? 
Have  you  risen  from  the  grave,  have  you  dropped  from  the  sky  ?  Tell 
Madeline,  my  beautiful,  where  have  you  buried  yourself  so  long? 

"  Brother  !"  she  answered,  while  something  like  fear  pervaded  her 
bosom  as  she  felt  his  ardent  gaze  upon  her  face;  and  yet  it  was  fear, 
overshadowed  by  the  very  Innocence  of  her  virgin  soul — "  I  received 
your  letter  only  an  hour  ago.    I  am  here  to  claim  your  promise.  You 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  521 

said  the  Past  should  be  forgotten,  Brother  and  that  you  would  join  my 
hands  in  marriage  with  my  pliglr.ed  Husband,  Gilbert  Morgan." 

Reginald  did  not  suffer  the  unmingled  surprise  which  pervaded  his 
being  to  appear  in  one  lineament  of  his  handsome  face.  He  bowed  his 
head, — thought  deeply,  intensely  for  a  moment — and  then  drew  her  gently 
to  him,  and  pressed  his  kiss  once  more  upon  her  lip. 

"So  I  did  Sister,"  he  murmured  without  raising  his  face,  "and  so  I  will, 
my  pretty  one.    You  shall  be  married  to  Gilbert.    I  vow  it  on  my  soul." 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FOURTH. 

MADELINE,   GILBERT  AND   ROLOF  SENER. 

And  at  the  same  moment,  the  door  of  the  chamber  was  opened,  and  a 
footstep  echoed  from  the  secret  stairway.  Reginald  heard  neither  the 
echo  of  the  step,  nor  the  sound  of  the  opening  door. 

But  when  he  raised  his  head,  lie  saw  Leola  standing  by  his  side,  her 
lips  curling  in  scorn,  her  eyes  flashing  with  wild  light — Leola  surpassingly 
beautiful  in  her  Bridal  Dress,  with  her  dark  hair  crowned  with  pale  lilies, 
and  a  diamond  glittering  on  her  proud  forehea  !. 

Leola  was  at  his  side,  and  before  him  stood  Gilbert  Morgan,  his  almost 
giant  form  attired  in  green  and  gold,  trembling  in  every  nerve,  his  sun- 
burnt face  darkening  with  deadly  anger,  his  hands  clenched,  and  his  brown 
hair  falling  in  disordered  masses  over  his  corrugated  brow. 

Gilbert  had  entered  by  the  secret  door,  as  Leola  came  through  the  other 
door  of  her  chamber. 

"  Go  on,"  she  cried  laughingly,  in  a  tone  of  withering  scorn,  "  This 
drama  amuses  me.  Go  on,  husband  of  mine.  I  would  not  disturb  your 
love  scene  for  the  world." 

And  the  future  Duchess  of  Lyndulfe  cast  upon  him  a  glance,  which 
might  have  killed  him,  had  glances  the  power  to  kill. 

"And.soh,  my  gay  friend,  we've  met  at  last,"  said  Gilbert,  drawing  a 
hunting  knife  from  his  belt:  "I've  waited  a  long  time  for  this  meetin'.  But 
we  have  met,  an'  face  to  face  too.  There's  no  mistake  this  time.  We 
can  settle  our  long  account  at  once,  and  without  delay.    Come  !" 

And  in  the  face  of  his  plighted  wife,  and  with  her  scornful  gaze  upon  him, 
and  in  the  face  of  Gilbert,  and  with  his  uplifted  knife  flashing  in  the  light, 
Reginald  drew  Madeline  to  his  breast,  and  kissed  her  rosy  lips  once 
more. 


522  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

Gilbert  uttered  a  blasphemous  oath;  Leola  bit  her  red  lip  until  it  was 
stained  with  blood. 

"For  this,  Madeline,"  he  cried,  "for  this  I  have  defied  the  power  of 
the  Fiend,  and  resolved  to  shake  off  his  infernal  sorcery,  and  be  a  man 
agin  !  Ah,  girl,  your  words  and  heart  are  alike— false — false  as  the 
Fiend  himself!" 

Leola  did  not  speak,  but  her  thoughts  was  full  of  agony — "For  this,  I 
have  sacrificed  Paul  Ardenheim  !" 

Reginald's  handsome  face  was  convulsed  with  laughter. 

"  Leola  !  Behold  my  long  lost  sister  !"  he  cried,  and  taking  Madeline 
by  the  hand,  urged  her  gently  into  the  arms  of  his  Betrothed. 

"  Ah  !  That  face  is  stamped  upon  my  soul.  Yes,  yes,  I  have  seen  you 
before  !"  and  the  proud  damsel  extended  her  arms  to  clasp  the  Orphan 
Girl  to  her  heart. 

But  Madeline  did  not  respond  to  her  caresses,  nor  look  into  her  eye?. 
For  Madeline's  warm  cheek  was  warm  and  glowing  no  longer,  and  Made- 
line's bright  eyes  were  obscured  with  a  misty  film.  Trembling  in  every 
limb,  she  had  suffered  Reginald  to  press  her  lip,  and  lead  her  toward  his 
Betrothed,  but  from  the  moment,  when  the  voice  of  Gilbert  broke  on  her 
ears,  she  had  lost  all  consciousness  of  anything  but  his  presence.  And 
yet  she  had  not  seen  him  ;  she  had  not  the  power  of  will  to  turn  and  gaze 
upon  him. 

Even  as  the  queenly  woman  pressed  her  hands,  Madeline  murmured 
faintly — "You  saved  my  life  on  that  fatal  night!"  but  her  thoughts  were 
of  Gilbert — every  instant  she  expected  to  clasp  his  hand  and  be  gathered 
to  his  heart. 

"You  are  not  well ;  this  excitement  has  been  too  much  for  you,  my 
sweet  sister,"  exclaimed  Leola. 

And  like  a  maiden  walking  in  her  sleep,  Madeline  turned  and  beheld 
Gilbert.  Stood  face  to  face  with  him — surveying  not  his  glitter'nr 
so  different  from  the  rude  huntsman's  costume  of  other  days,  nor  yet  his 
sunburnt  face^  with  brown  curls  about  the  brow,  and  a  thick  beard  around 
the  muscular  throat — but  looking  into  his  eyes,  as  though  she  would  grasp 
his  very  Soul, 

Gilbert  saw  her  look  so  wildly  on  him — trembled — and  reached  forth 
his  arras.  "Come,  Madeline,"  he  said,  in  a  husky  voice — "You're  the 
only  thing  left  to  me  on  this  earth,  and  you  only  can  save  me  from  the 
Fiend." 

She  did  not  glide  to  him,  she  did  not  dart  into  his  arms,  but  she  was 
there  —  upon  his  breast — her  maidenly  form,  which  looked  slight  and  dimin- 
utive beside  his  giant  frame,  quivering  in  his  convulsive  grasp.  And  the 
tears  of  that  strong  man  fell  like  rain  upon  her  face,  and  in  the  very  agony 
of  his  joy,  he  muttered  incoherent  ejaculations,  which  no  one  unfamiliar 
with  his  adventures,  might  comprehend. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


523 


"  True  !    True  !    True  by  !    True  as  light  to-day,  or  an  angel  to 

its  God.  There  aint  no  blemish  in  you,  girl.  Spotless  as  the  driven 
snow.  And  you'll  pray  for  me,  and  God  will  hear  your  prayer.  Wont 
you  Madeline  ?"  He  did  not  suffer  her  to  answer  him  with  words,  but 
took  his  answer  from  her  lips.  How  that  kiss,  the  first  that  had  pressed  his 
mouth  from  Madeline's  lips,  since  the  fatal  night  thrilled  poor  Gilbert's 
soul  !    It  was  like  a  token  of  Peace — of  Forgiveness. 

"  And  I  murdered  you,  Madeline ;  yes,  stabbed  you  as  if* you'd  been  a 
savage  beast,  or  a  devil  in  human  shape,  like  myself.  Did  n't  I  ?  Can 
you  ever  forgive  ?" 

"  Gilbert,"  she  answered  softly,  pressing  her  hands  upon  his  sunburnt 
face,  as  he  held  her  to  his  breast,  as  you  would  hold  a  child  :  41  The  darkness 
has  gone  from  us  forever.    It  is  morning  with  us  now  !" 

Leola  proud  and  beautiful,  as  she  was  in  her  bridal  attire,  could  not  re- 
strain her  tears.  She  suffered  them  to  flow  freely,  and  did  not  attempt  to 
hide  them,  as  they  flashed  over  her  glowing  cheek. 

Reginald  with  a  moody  brow,  and  lips  pressed  between  his  teeth,  sur- 
veyed the  scene  in  sullen  silence,  only  muttering  a  deep  curse  or  two, 
with  some  gallant  ejaculation,  such  as  this:  "  He  carries  it  bravely  !  The 
peasant  grub  turned  butterfly,  as  I  live!  Zounds!  He'll  strangle  her 
with  his  clownish  kisses  !" 

"  And  as  you  intend  to  marry  the  Lady  Madeline,  sister  of  my  Lord 
Reginald,  may  I,  as  an  humble  friend  of  the  family,  presume  so  far  as  to' 
request  the  favor  of  your  name  ?" 

It  was  a  very  mild  voice,  low  and  gentle,  and  yet  it  thrilled  Leola  and 
Reginald  with  the  same  shudder  ;  forced  a  shriek,  half  joy,  half  fear  from 
Madeline's  lips,  and  as  for  Gilbert,  it  seemed  to  transform  into  a  statue  ; 
a  sort  of  quaint  effigy  of  the  giant  Sampson,  with  a  face  of  marble,  and 
costume  of  velvet  glittering  with  gold. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Rolof  Sener. 

He  had  glided  unperceived  from  the  secret  door,  and  now  he  stood  be- 
tween Gilbert  and  Reginald,  his  pale  face  slightly  drooped  upon  his  breast, 
as  he  gazed — with  upturned  eyes — into  Gilbert's  visage.  There  was 
something  at  once  grotesque  and  sublime  in  the  horror  manifested  by  Gil- 
bert, at  the  sight  of  Rolof  Sener. 

"The  Fiend  himself!"  he  gasped,  "  save  me  from  him,  Madeline — save 
me,  or  I'm  lost.  He  put  his  Soul  upon  me  an  hour  ago,  when  I  was  in 
your  room,  at  the  Haunted  House,  away  yonder  at  Germantown,  and  I 
was  forced  to  obey  him — and  walk  where  he  wished — and  do  as  he 
willed  me — but  I've  resolved  to  break  his  power.  To  break  his  power,  I 
say,  and  cast  off  his  spells,  and  be  my  own  man  agin.  You  can  help  me, 
Madeline — you  only  !  Back!  Back!  I  say  !  You  dare  not  touch  me 
while  this  pure  girl  is  on  my  breast !" 


524  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

"Why  this  "is  my  father,  good  Rolof  Sener,"  cried  Madeline,  amazed 
at  Gilbert's  horror. 

"  You  see,  my  children,  I  have  not  moved  an  inch,  and  yet  he  bids  me 
back  !  and  shrinks  away  from  me,  as  if  I  meant  to  strike  him.  I  indeed! 
when  a  blow  from  his  arm  would  crush  me  to  powder." 

Rolof  with  his  arms  folded,  and  his  head  drooped  on  his  breast,  gazed 
around  with  upturned  eyes,  while  a  sad  sweet  smile  hung  on  his  thin  lips. 

Leola  shuddered ;  why,  she  could  not  tell  :  "  His  face  does  not  seem  to 
me,  like  the  Rolof  Sener,  who  talked  with  me  to-day  !"  theUhought  darted 
over  her  mind. 

"  Ranulph  John  !"  muttered  Reginald,  as  a  singular  memory  agitated 
his  brain. 

"  You  wish  to  marry  this  lady,"  continued  Rolof,  who  now  kept  his 
gaze  fixed  immovably  upon  Gilbert's  horror-stricken  face — "  You  are 
gaily  dressed.  This  is  well.  Unless  indeed,  your  beautiful  plumage 
covers  a  vulture's  heart.    But  we  wish  to  know  your  name  ?" 

"  Back  !  Back !  Your  eyes  from  my  face  I  say,  your  curse  from  my 
soul!"  shrieked. Gilbert,  and  in  his  despair  he  clutched  poor  Madeline 
with  an  embrace  like  Death  itself;  "You're  spinnin'  your  infernal  web 
around  me — I  know  it,  I  know  it.  An'  I  must  come  into  your  clutches 
at  last,  but  while  this  girl  is  near  my  heart,  I  defy  you." 

The  words  had  scarcely  passed  his  lips,  when  his  arms  were  out- 
stretched, with  a  stiff,  mechanical  movement ;  his  features  became  rigid 
and  motionless  ;  his  eyes,  fixed  in  their  sockets,  shone  with  a  dull  leaden 
lustre. 

"  It  is  not  Gilbert  !"  shrieked  Madeline — "  It  is  a  Corpse  !"  and  half- 
swooning  she  sank  into  the  extended  arms  of  Reginald. 

"  Now  my  Lord,  and  you  fair  lady,  with  your  permission  I  will  ques- 
tion the  cunning  knave,  who  thinks  to  hide  his  criminal  life,  and  cowardly 
designs,  under  the  cloak  of  madness.  Have  the  goodness  to  remain  per- 
fectly still  while  I  question  him.  And  you,  my  own  Madeline,  let  not 
your  heart  throb  against  your  bosom,  like  a  bird  against  the  bars  of  its 
cage.    The  real  Gilbert,  may  come  back  some  day." 

"The  real  Gilbert?"  cried  Madeline,  "  This  is  Gilbert  Morgan,— at 
least — "  she  gazed  into  the  corpse-like  face  and  hesitated—"  At  least  I 
thought  it  was  a  moment  ago." 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  Leola  and  Reginald  awaited  the  issue  of  this 
scene  with  a  breathless  interest.  And  as  they  stood,  perfectly  silent  and 
motionless,  their  eyes  alternating  between  the  remarkable  visage  of  Rolof 
and  the  face  of  Gilbert,  who  looked  in  truth,  like  a  frozen  man,  placed 
on  his  feet,  by  some  strange  fancy,  the  merry  sound  of  the  Marriage 
Music,  still  burst  in  one  bounding  peal,  through  the  window  of  the  Bri- 
dal Chamber.  , 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


\ 

525 


"  Answer  me,"  said  Rolof  Sener,  never  for  an  instant  removing  his 
gaze  from  Gilbert's  face,  "  Where  was  you,  this  night  one  year  ?" 

A  horrible  smile  distorted  Gilbert's  lips,  while  the  other  part  of  his 
face  remained  fixed  as  Death. 

44  On  board  the  brave  Ship  Avenger,  with  as  tight  a  crew  as  ever  trod  a 
pirate's  deck.  Ha,  ha — "  it  was  not  a  burst  of  laughter,  which  came  from  his 
lips,  but  rather  a  series  of  spasmodic  groans — "  How  we  boarded  the 
East  Indiaman,  at  set  of  sun,  and  raked  her  decks,  and  drove  her  crew 

into  the  hold,  and  then  why  then,  the  moon  came  up,  and  saw 

five  hundred  of  them  walk  the  plank,  and  struggle  their  last,  among  the 
waves  as  red  as  blood." 

"  You  hear  ?"  whispered  Rolof,  turning  to  Madeline — this  is  your 
lover. 

Madeline  was  silent,  but  Leola  muttered — "If  he  was  brave,  and  only 
made  war  upon  the  strong,  I  could  love  hirn  in  spite  of  all." 

Rolof  again  turned  to  Gilbert,  whose  face  still  retained  its  corpse-like 
immovability.  "You  were  the  Captain  of  the  Ship?  answer  me  truly; 
I  know  your  life,  and  can  punish  falsehood  with  a  halter." 

, 44  The  Captain — ha,  ha  !"  again  that  burst  of  unearthly  laughter — 
44  You  should  have  asked  my  men,  as  they  gathered  about  me  after  the 
fight,  who  was  Captain  of  our  Avenger  !  We  had  wine  from  the  stores 
of  the  East  Indiaman,  and  women,  too, — aye,  we  saved  the  best  of  the 
lot,  and  made  a  night  o' t  together.    We  did.    I  and  my  jolly  crew." 

44  You  are  listening  my  child?"  and  again  Rolof  with  his  sweet  smile 
turned  to  Madeline. 

44  It  is  only  a  frightful  dream  !"  she  faltered  and  gathered  her  hands, 
across  her  breast  with  a  clash  like  iron.  44  And  yet  in  spite  of  all,  it  is 
Gilbert,  and  he  is  my  plighted  husband." 

Leola  reached  forth  her  hand,  and  pressed  the  cold  hand  of  the  Orphan 
Girl,  while  a  tear  glittered  in  her  proud  eye. 

Meanwhile  Reginald's  face,  manifested  the  extremes  of  surprise  and 
horror.  44  The  wretch  !"  he  muttered  and  retreated  a  step  from  Gilbert : 
44  He  would  have  stolen  my  sister,  and  made  her  the  toy  of  his  brutal 
orgies!"    Fraternal  Reginald  ! 

44  Listen  once  again,  Madeline,  my  child.  Tell  me,  Sir  Pirate,  did  you 
ever  encounter  a  rude  landsman  in  your  travels,  named  Gilbert  Morgan  ? 
You  lately  assumed  his  name  ;  but  his  rugged  honesty  would  put  your 
shallow  knavery  to  the  blush." 

44 1  did.  In  the  West  Indies,  I  saw  him  two  years  ago  ;  he  often  spoke 
of  the  Wissahikon.     By  it  was  the  last  word  on  his  lips  !,' 

44  The  last  word  ?"  cried  Madeline,  starting  from  the  arms  of  Reginald. 
44  He  is  dead,  then,  but  no — no  !  It  is  a  mockery.  You  are  here,  Gilbert. 
My  heart  tells  me,  it  is  you.  Wherefore  these  idle  words  ?  Speak  to  me 
Gilbert !    What  means  this  scene  ?"  - 


526 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 


But  the  Man  whom  she  addressed  did  not  answer  her  with  a  word — 
not  even  with  a  look.  His  leaden  gaze  was  still  centered  on  the  visage 
of  Rolof  Sener.  To  Rolof,  Madeline  turned  and  laid  her  head  upon  his 
folded  arms,  looking  into  his  face,  with  all  her  soul,  in  the  intensity  of  her 
gaze  s  "  This  is  not  kind  of  you,  my  Father !  It  is  unworthy  of  your 
generous  nature  !" 

Yet  Rolof  without  pausing  to  answer  her,  continued  his  questions  : 
"  You  saw  the  last  of  Gilbert  Morgan  V 

"  He  died  in  my  arms,  scarcely  two  years  ago,  of  the  yellow  fever  too, 
raving  to  the  last  about  Wissahikon  and  Madeline,"  was  the  answer. 

The  Orphan  Girl  sank  back  as  if  a  bullet  had  penetrated  her  bosom  ; 
she  buried  her  pale  face  upon  the  breast  of  Leola,  who  whispered— 
4  Courage,  my  Sister  !    It  is  not  so  dark  as  it  appears." 

"You  bear  a  great  personal  resemblance  to  Gilbert  Morgan?"  Made- 
line awaited  the  answer  to  this  question  with  quivering  suspense. 

"  I  do.  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  by  Jove  !  My  comrades  often  laughed  about 
it,  while  he  lived,  and  when  tie  was  dead,  I  resolved  that  I'd  turn  it  to 
advantage,  if  I  ever  came  to  Philadelphia." 

Madeline  buried  her  face  again  ;  the  last  hope  had  gone  out. 

"  How  ?"  asked  Rolof  Sener. 

And  the  Man  with  the  motionless  form  and  corpse-like  visage,  uttered 
a  burst  of  hollow  laughter  as  he  replied :  "  Gilbert  had  spoken  of  the 
pretty  lass  named  Madeline.  Had  told  me,  in  fact,  those  dear  little  se- 
crets.of  his  love  affairs,  which  are  generally  only  known  to  two  persons, 
to  wit,  the  lover  and  the  sweetheart.  Says  I, — that  is  after  he  died — if 
I  even  come  to  Philadelphia,  I  will  seek  out  this  Wissahikon,  and  make 
love  to  this  Madeline— if  she  happens  to  be  living — in  the  name  of  the 
dead  Gilbert.  So  I  planned  it,  and  so  I've  tried  to  accomplish  it,  but 
you  " 

"  Villian  !  I  have  foiled  your  cunning  and  brought  your  knavery  to  the 
light,"  interrupted  Rolof,  his  eyes  for  the  first  time,  flashing  with  rage. 
"Now  depart!  Once  this  day,  have  I  warned  you;  I  now  repeat  my 
warning  !  This  time  you  depart  unscathed.  But  remember !  Should 
you  ever  appear  upon  the  Wissahikon  again  or  dare  again,  to  assume  the 

name  of  poor  Gilbert  Morgan  remember  !    I  will  deliver  you  into 

the  clutches  of  that  Justice,  whose  very  name,  makes  your  face  wear  the 
look  of  death,  and  the  heart  within  turn  to  ice.  This  time  depart  in 
Peace  !" 

And  the  man,  clad  in  the  green  doublet  embroidered  with  gold,  turned 
his  fixed  eyeballs  from  the  light,  and  with  a  measured,  but  mechanical 
stride,  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  secret  stairway. 

"  Gilbert !  Gilbert !"  shrieked  Madeline,  darting  forward  with  panting 
bosom  and  outspread  arms,  "Do  not  leave  me!  Do  not  leave  me,  Gil- 
bert "    But  he  did  not  turn  back,  and  cast  one  farewell  look  upon  her 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


527 


face.  Without  a  look,  without  one  accent  of  farewell,  he  crossed  the 
threshold,  and  was  gone. 

"Let  me  arrest  his  flight,"  cried  Reginald,  starting  from  his  stupor, 
which  had  bound  his  senses  while  these  events  transpired  before  his  very 
eyes  :  «  A  wretch  like  this,  is  not  fit  to  live  !" 

Rolof  waved  him  back.  "  Would  the  Lord  of  Lyndulfe  convert  him- 
self into  a  bailiff  on  his  wedding  night.  I  have  unmasked  the  wretch. 
That  is  sufficient.    Let  him  depart  in  peace." 

"  Unmasked,  indeed,"  murmured  Madeline,  sadly,  gazing  upon  the  spot 
where  the  Pirate  had  lately  stood  :  "  But  at  the  same  time,  good  father, 
you  have  unmasked  my  grave.  It  was  concealed  by  flowers,  only  a  few 
moments  since.    I  see  it  clearly  now,  and  —  my  foot  is  on  the  brink." 

Was  it  a  tear  that  subdued  the  stern  light  of  Rolof 's  gaze?  Very  sad 
it  was,  to  see  her  standing  there,  the  centre  of  the  silent  group,  her  pure 
and  virgin  loveliness  frozen  at  its  fountain,  by  the  corpse-hand  of  despair. 

"  Come,  Madeline,  you  need  repose,"  said  'Rolof,  kindly,  as  he  took  her 
by  the  hand :  "  This  house  must  be  your  home,  until  you  depart  for  Eng- 
land, with  your  Brother  Reginald,  and  your  sister,  his  Bride." 

Even  the  thought  of  leaving  Wissahikon,  brought  no  glimpse  of  color 
to  her  cheek  ;  she  took  his  hand  in  silence,  and  with  faint  and  uneven  foot- 
steps, moved  with  him  toward  the  door. 

"Reginald,"  he  said,  as  he  passed  the  young  Lord,  "I  will  join  you 
again,  before  the  marriage  ceremony.  Jacopo  waits  below"  he  added,  in 
a  whisper,  "  and  'when  Leola  cloys  your  appetite,  the  daughter  of  Cathe- 
rine Conicell  will  lead  on  the  drama  of  your  loves."  There  was  a  strange 
significance  in  his  look  and  smile,  as  he  spoke  these  latter  words. 

Then  passing  onward,  to  where  Leola  stood,  he  addressed  her  in  a 
paternal  tone  :  "  Arrayed,  for  the  bridal,  my  child  ?  I  thought  you  beau- 
tiful before,  but  now,  it  seems  to  me,  you  look  like  the  Duchess  of  Lyn- 
dulfe, and  yet — "  he  hissed  the  words  in  an  emphatic  whisper:  "Paul 
Ardenheim  will  yet  be  yours  .'" 

With  Madeline  clinging  to  his  arm,  he  left  the  Bridal  Chamber,  while 
the  Bride  stood  gazing  on  vacancy,  her  cheek  flushed  and  her  bosom 
heaving;  and  the  Bridegroom,  with  his  gaze  fixed  upon  Madeline's  re- 
treating form,  felt  all  the  sensualism  of  his  nature,  mount  to  his  eyes.  The 
last  words  of  Rolof  Sener  had  thrilled  like  molten  fire  through  their  veins. 

u  Paul  Ardenheim  will  yet  be  yours  !"  murmured  Leola,  as  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  voluptuous  breast. 

And  Reginald,  as  he  smoothed  the  snow-white  cambric  which  fluttered 
over  his  breast,  exclaimed  to  himself — "The  daughter  of  Catherine  Con- 
well  and  Leola!    A  delicious  contrast,  upon  my  soul !" 

With  thoughts  like  these  stirring  in  their  hearts,  they  took  each  other 
by  the  hand,  and  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  Never  stood  nobler  pair 
before  the  marriage  altar.    Reginald  magnificent  in  his  young  manhood) 


« 


528  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

his  entire  form  presenting  a  perfect  type  of  physical  beauty  ;  his  limbs  at 
once  graceful  and  muscular ;  his  blonde  complexion  lighted  by  eyes  of 
dark  blue,  his  forehead  relieved  by  hair  of  chesnut  brown.  Leola,  well- 
developed  in  every  rounded  limb,  her  bosom  swelling  with  life,  her  clear 
brown  complexion  blooming  into  vermillion  on  the  lips  and  cheeks,  the 
intense  blackness  of  her  hair,  encircled  with  pale  lilies,  only  exceeded  by 
the  darkness  of  her  eyes.  The  Soul  of  a  sensualist  embodied  in  a  manly 
form — the  Soul  of  a  proud  and  ambitious  Spirit  embodied  in  the  shape  of 
a  voluptuous  Woman.  There  they  were,  hand  in  hand,  eye  gleaming  in 
eye,  looking  into  one  another's  faces,  with  all  the  frankness  of  an  all- 
trusting  Faith,  and  meanwhile,  in  their  hearts  was  written,  Lust  and 
Pride. 

"  A  beautiful  animal  !"  he  thought,  as  he  pressed  her  hand. 

"  A  convenient  stepping  stone  for  me  and  Paul !"  she  thought,  as  she 
looked  into  his  eyes. 

There  is  a  lesson  in  this  scene;  a  lesson  worth  all  the  sermons  ever 
preached  in  grand  marble  churches,  to  ears  of  lead  and  hearts  of  brass. 
Survey  it  with  your  own  eyes  ;  paint  it  in  your  memory. 

This  luxurious  chamber,  so  beautiful  with  the  pictures  that  seem  to 
breathe  from  the  canvass,  and  marble  images  that  look  like  human  beings 
whose  footsteps  have  only  been  arrested  for  a  moment  by  a  passing 
thought  ;  this  luxurious  chamber,  whose  very  atmosphere  seems  hallowed 
by  the  sacred  Marriage  Bed,  while  its  curtains  move  to  and  fro,  to  the 
impulse  of  a  breeze  that  comes  ladened  with  Marriage  Melody.  Is  it  not 
a  beautiful  scene  ? 

And  here,  in  the  centre  of  the  place,  stand  the  Bridegroom  and  the 
Bride,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  with  glances  that  seem  to  speak  of 
Love,  as  pure  as  that  which  trembled  from  the  gaze  of  Adam  into  the 

heart  of  spotless  Eve,  and  and  after  all,  this  Bridegroom  and  Bride 

are  only  a  Rich  Man  and  his  Purchase. 

The  Marriage  Bed — ah  !  What  words  spoken  from  a  book,  what 
Priest  ordained  by  a  Bishop,  what  vows  uttered  in  the  sight  of  God  and 
man,  can  render  holy  that  Marriage  Couch  ?  . 

"  This  night  has  beheld  many  dark  and  troubled  scenes,"  whispered 
Leola,  as  her  eyes  wore  a  vague  and  dreamy  light. 

"  But,  Leola,"  whispered  Reginald,  as  his  passionate  breath  fanned  her 
cheek,  while  his  eye,  gazing  over  her  snowy  shoulder,  beheld  the  Mar- 
riage Bed — "  But,  Leola,  after  all  it  is  our  Marriage  Night." 

At  this  moment,  what  scenes  are  passing  yonder,  within  the  Block- 
House  of  Wissahikon  ?    And  Paul  Ardenheim— does  he  live  ? 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON.  529 
CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 

THE  END  OF  ALL. 

When  Paul  awoke  again,  the  luxurious  chamber  had  passed  away.  He 
found  himself  alone,  in  the  silence  and  shadow  of  Night.  His  form  was 
prostrate;  his  brow  was  pressed  against  the  damp  grass.  He  raised  him- 
self and  looked  around,  and  endeavored  to  collect  his  shattered  senses. 
There  was  blood  upon  his  forehead;  a  sharp  pain  smote  his  very  brain. 
He  was  in  the  shrubbery,  near  the  secret  door.  This  much  he  knew. 
But  how  had  he  come  hither  ?  Why  this  mark  of  blood  upon  his  brow  ? 
The  form  of  the  Wizard's  Daughter,  clinging  to  the  neck  of  Reginald — 
was  that  only  the  remembrance  of  a  dream  ? 

And  through  the  shrubbery  which  shut  him  in,  came  fitful  and  broken 
rays  of  festival  light,  and  the  murmur  of  music — music  pealing  within 
solid  walls — came  faintly  to  his  ear. 

"Where  am  I?"  he  muttered,  and  placed  his  hand  against  his  bleeding 
brow.  "Ah — it  was  all  a  dream.  I  knew  that  I  would  awake  at  last. 
Yet  it  seems  to  me,  that  I  heard  Reginald  call  her  by  the  name  of  Leola. 
And  that  I  saw  her  clinging  to  the  neck  of  Reginald.  A  troubled  dream — 
nothing  more  !" 

A  burst  of  music,  mingled  with  the  hum  of  merry  voices,  rushed  upon 
his  ear :  and  at  the  same  moment,  a  form  emerged  from  the  shadows  and 
drew  near  his  side,  and  by  a  ray  of  broken  light,  he  saw  the  pale  visage 
of  Rolof  Sener.  A  memory  smote  the  heart  of  Paul,  that  he  had  seen 
that  Face  before.    But  where? 

"  The  Bride  has  gone  to  her  chamber,"  said  a  voice,  singular  in  its 
sweetness,  "  And  now  the  young  Husband  goes  to  claim  his  Purchase. 
Do  you  hear  the  shouts  of  the  marriage  guests  ?  Leola  is  young  and 
beautiful — and  married.  Or  is  Sold  the  word  ?  And  the  Rich  Man  who 
bought  her — do  you  remember  how  an  hour  ago,  he  smote  you  on  the 
forehead, — aye,  smote  the  very  scar  you  received  in  his  cause  ?  How  he 
thrust  you  from  the  chamber,  and  flung  you,  bleeding  and  insensible,  upon 
this  sod  ?    Reginald,  your  friend,  did  this — an  hour  ago — and  now  he 

goes  to  claim  his  Purchase.    His  footstep  is  on  the  threshold  Leola 

in  the  Bridal  couch  awaits  him." 

And  Paul  Ardenheim  felt  something  pressed  into  his  grasp  by  the 
speaker;  he  clutched  it,  and  raised  it  until  it  met  a  fitful  ray;  it  was  a 
dagger,  with  a  hilt  of  iron,  and  a  long  blade  sharp  and  glittering. 

"That  door  leads  to  her  chamber,"  whispered  Rolof  Sener  ;  and  Paul 
Ardenheim,  without  a  word,  went  through  the  narrow  door  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  secret  chamber,  the  iron-hilted  dagger  in  his  grasp. 

84 


530  PAUL  ARDENHEIM;  OR, 

As  he  disappeared,  the  withered  frame  of  Isaac  Van  Behme— or  Sir 
Ralph  WyttonkursU  as  you  will — crept  from  the  bushes,  and  glided  to 
Rolof  Sener's  side,  and  then  sank  trembling  and  prostrate  at  Rolof  Sener's 
•  feet.  His  pallid  face,  seen  by  the  wandering  rays,  was  stamped  with  awe 
— his  hands  were  clasped,  as  if  in  the  act  of  worship  —  he  gazed  into 
the  face  of  Rolof  Sener,  and  murmured, — "Satan!" 

"  Have  no  fear,"  said  the  sweet  voice  of  Rolof  Sener,  "  Paul  Ardenheim 
is  mine,  and  Paul  Ardenheim  is  gone  to  bring  the  precious  blood  for 
which  thou  dost  seek." 

Up  the  dark  stairway,  dagger  in  hand,  went  Paul  Ardenheim,  and 
pressed  the  spring  of  the  secret  door,  but  in  vain.  It  did  not  move  at  his 
touch;  the  mirror  was  fastened  in  its  place.  Then  Paul,  in  the  darkness, 
laid  his  hand  upon  his  bleeding  hrow,  and  thrust  that  hand  within  his 
garment,  and  felt  the  fragment  of  the  Broken  Coin.  Then,  as  if  every 
relenting  pulse  had  turned  to  ice,  he  pressed  his  weight  against  the  door  ; 
it  yielded  without  a  sound — and  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  Leola's 
chamber. 

A  solitary  lamp  was  burning  there,  and  its  rays  left  the  statues  and  the 
pictures  in  twilight  shadow,  while  the  Bridal  Bed,  its  white  curtains  drawn 
together,  gleamed  distinctly  on  his  sight — and  from  those  snowy  folds,  the 
sound  of  murmuring  voices  met  his  ear.  Leola  in  the  arms  of  Reginald — 
Leola  in  the  embrace  of  the  Rich  Man,  who  had  bought  her  with  his  gold ! 
Yes,  her  white  robe  appeared  in  the  interval  of  the  curtains  ;  her  form  was 
dimly  discernible  through  their  folds  ;  she  was  standing  beside  the  bed, 
bending  over  it,  and  with  an  arm  around  her  snowy  neck. 

Paul  stood  on  the  threshold — glanced  around  for  an  instant — crossed 
the  chamber  with  noiseless  steps,  and  over  Leola's  shoulder,  struck  his 
dagger  into  the  breast  of  Reginald,  even  as  he  reclined  upon  the  couch. 
And  then  Leola  turned  to  look  upon  him,  and  Paul,  tearing  the  curtains 
with  his  frenzied  hands,  rushed  forward,  eager  to  catch  the  last  loo.*  o;  uie 
dying  man.  It  was  too  dim;  he  could  not  see;  he  heard  Leola's  half- 
uttered  shriek,  but  the  face  and  the  visage  of  the  Dying  was  lost  in  the 
shadow. 

Then,  suddenly  a  burst  of  warm  radiance  filled  the  place — Paul  turned, 
and  by  the  glad  light  which  gushed  through  the  doorway  of  the  chamber, 
saw  Leola  and  Reginald  encircled'by  the  marriage  guests.  And  at  the 
same  time,  from  the  secret  door  appeared  the  face  of  Isaac  Van  Behme, — 
quivering  with  an  infernal  desire — while  Rolof  Sener  calm  and  smiling, 
stepped  into  the  room  with  folded  arms. 

Paul  turned  to  the  Bed  once  more,  and  saw  the  prostrate  form,  and  knew 
the  ashen  face.  It  was  His  Father.  But  this  Woman  by  the  bed-side, 
whose  golden  hair  waves  aside  from  a  face,  serenely  beautiful,  with  its 
eyes  of  clear,  deep  blue,  lighted  by  an  Angel's  love  ?    It  is  Catherine. 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


531 


The  sister  by  the  bed  gazing  into  his  face,  while  the  Father  stricken  by 
his  hand,  writhed  his  last  agony  ! 

She  took  him  by  the  hand — his  Sister — and  pointed  to  the  quivering 
features  of  the  old  man.  "  He  dies,  Paul — "  she  said — yes — he  heard 
her  voice  and  lived — "  But  not  by  your  hand.  Look  !  The  knife  is 
buried  in  the  pillow.  As  you  struck,  I  raised  my  hand,  scarce  knowing- 
why,  and  turned  aside  the  deadly  aim.  Away,  Paul  ;  this  is  no  time  for 
explanations  ;  no  time  for  thought.  Away — let  not  your  footsteps  pause 
until  you  stand  within  our  Home  once  more.  To  the  Block-House,  Paul, 
and  when  you  have  rescued  the  Deliverer,  and  looked  upon  your  true 
Destiny,  then  I,  Catherine,  your  Sister,  will  tell  you  all." 

Paul  heard  her  voice,  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  drank  the  God-born 
Thought,  which  gave  them  light.  For  a  moment  he  lingered  to  press  hie 
Sister's  hand  to  his  lips, — even  as  a  Catholic  might  the  marble  hand  of  a 
sculptured  Mary,  mother  of  the  Lord — and  then  with  an  agitated  counte- 
nance, but  with  eyes  radiant  with  a  holy  Resolve,  he  turned  away,  and 
passed  through  the  door,  passed  between  the  forms  of  Leola  and  Reginald 
—  without  a  glance,  without  a  word. 

The  rest  of  the  events  of  that  night — are  they  not  written  in  the 
chronicles  of  Mount  Sepulchre?  Some  day  we  will  again  take  up  the 
Record,  and  from  the  mysterious  cyphers  translate  the  history  of  Paul ; 
Leola  ;  Reginald :  of  Madeline  and  Gilbert,  and  of  the  dread  Ranulph, 
whose  corpse-like  visage,  Paul  beheld  in  the  shadows  of  the  Sealed 
Chamber.    But  now,  we  linger  only  for  a  parting  word — 

As  Paul  crossed  the  threshold,  Rolof  Sener  rushed  to  the  Bed, — saw 
that  the  dagger  was  harmless — and  then  with  a  livid  face  approached 
Reginald,  even  as  Leola,  pale  and  beautiful,  hung  on  his  arm  : 

"  Behold  the  Son  of  Gaspard-Michael  !"  he  cried  and  pointed  to  the  re- 
treating form  of  Paul  Ardenheim. 

And  Catherine  kneeling  by  the  bed,  and  pressing  her  Father's  death- 
chilled  hands  within  her  own,  lifted  up  her  eyes  and  voice  to  Heaven, 
and  thanked  the  God  of  all  life,  that  the  Malice  of  Satan,  his  intricate 
plans  and  infernal  cunning,  all  had  been  brought  to  nothing,  conquered 
and  crushed  by  the  instinct  of  a  Sister's  Love. 


END  OF  BOOK  SECOND. 


532 


PAUL  ARDENHEIMj  OR, 


EPILOGUE. 

A  WORD  TO  THE  READER. 

Thus  far  have  we  progressed  in  our  translation  of  the  Ancient  Manu- 
scripts, which  record  in  their  peculiar  Cypher,  the  history  of  Paul  Arden- 
heim  the  Monk  of  Wissahikon.    Much  we  have  written,  and  yet  at  the 
present  moment  we  have  scarcely  passed  the  threshold  of  that  history. 
We  have  seen  the  fearful  education  of  Paul  Ardenheim's  Soul ;  we  have 
seen  it  writhing  into  shape,  in  scenes  of  temptation  and  despair.  We 
have  yet  to  look  upon  that  Soul,  in  its  matured  vigor,  embodied  in  deeds, 
at  once  generous  and  sublime.    What  pen  shall  dare  attempt  the  portrait- 
ure of  the  entire  life  of  Paul  Ardenheim,  and  trace  him  step  by  step  from 
the  chamber  of  Leola  to  his  grave  ?    Step  by  step  through  the  American 
Revolution,  among  scenes  which  written  History  has  blazoned  to  the 
world,  and  among  scenes  which  still  slumber,  dumb  and  unrecorded,  m 
the  charnels  of  the  Past  ?    What  hand  shall  dare  to  lift  the  curtain,  and 
reveal  Paul  Ardenheim  gliding  like  a  Ghost — like  an  embodied  Fate- 
through  the  incredible  horrors  and  gloomy  triumphs  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution ?    For  glancing  over  the  untranslated  volumes,  which  in  their  diffi- 
cult Cypher,  enshroud  these  Legends  of  a  past  age,  we  read  the  name  of 
the  Monk  of  Wissahikon,  not  only  in  connection  with  the  history  of 
Washington  and  the  New  World ;  but  also  on  the  red  page,  which  tells 
of  the  Old  World  in  travail  for  its  freedom  with  Robespierre  the  Messiah 
of  Blood,  presiding  over  its  glorious  agonies.    At  the  present  moment, 
neither  our  time,  nor  the  limits  of  this  work  permit  us  to  translate  the  en- 
tire life  of  Paul  Ardenheim  ;  and  array  its  various  and  mysterious  inci- 
dents in  the  familiar  garb  of  every-day  speech.    And  yet,  at  this  moment, 
when  we  are  about  to  part  after  journeying  together  so  long,  it  is  in  my 
heart,  Reader,  to  speak  a  word  to  you.    Let  us  talk  together  like  two 
friends,  who  after  traversing  many  a  hill  and  valley — side  by  side,  in  storm 
and  calm — attain  the  last  hill-top,  and  linger  for  a  moment,  with  their  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  wide  landscape  of  their  pilgrimage.    Like  friends,  I  say, 
let  us  talk  together,  and  say  a  frank  word  to  each  other.    It  is  not  for  me, 
now,  to  attempt  to  explain  the  mysteries  of  the  present  work  ;  many  things 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


533 


in  its  pages,  which  appear  dark  and  obscure,  might  easily  be  made  plain 
as  sunlight,  by  a  simple  reference  to  that  great  science  of  the  Soul,  which 
in  our  day  is  called  Magnetism.  But  for  the  present,  I  will  not  attempt 
any  explanation  of  these  mysteries  ;  in  a  future  work  I  may  lift  the  veil 
from  all  that  now  appears  incredible  in  the  history  of  Paul  Ardenheim. 
*  But  this  work  is  Improbable — its  events  are  wild — unnatural — the  very 
machinery  of  the  story  is  based  upon  supernatural  agency  !'  To  objec- 
tions like  these,  I  might  answer,  in  a  frank  and  confidential  way,  my 
friend  : 

*  Truth  is  stranger  than  Fiction.  Wherefore  ?  Because  Fiction  only 
revels  and  glows  in  the  Probable,  while  Truth  in  her  noblest  form,  dares, 
and  conquers  the  Impossible.  Was  ever  Fiction  so  wild,  so  romantic,  so 
utterly  defiant  of  all  your  rules  of  criticism,  as  the  actual  life  of  Napoleon 
Bonaparte.  Fiction  in  its  present  form  as  displayed  in  the  poems  and 
novels  of  the  present  day,  does  not  present  extravagant  views  of  life,  or 
paint  pictures  that  transcend  probability  ;  its  delineations,  or  the  contrary, 
are  only  extravagant  in  their  tameness,  and  transcendant  in  their  mathe- 
matical probability.  The  truest  of  true  histories  never  look  at  first  sight, 
like  Truth.  Tell  a  man  of  Franklin's  day,  that  a  time  would  come — was 
coming,  and  the  boy  of  ten  years  old  might  live  to  see  it — when  carriages 
would  go  by  themselves  ;  when  ships  would  cross  the  ocean  without 
sails  ;  when  a  man  in  Boston  would  converse  with  his  friend  in  New 
Orleans,  by  means  of  a  wire  stretched  along  an  infinitude  of  poles  !  Ten 
chances  to  one,  but  Dr.  Franklin  himself  would  have  put  you  out  of  his 
office,  for  assertions  wild  as  these  :  without  a  doubt,  any  one  of  Dr.  Frank- 
lin's neighbors  would  have  quelled  your  lunacy  in  a  mad-house.  The 
veriest  man  of  "  common-sense'''  of  Franklin's  day, — the  merest  gossip  of 
a  neighborhood,  or  a  newspaper  could  have  told  you,  that  your  brain  was 
mad,  your  skull  soft,  your  blood  red-hot  with  fever. 

How  many  years  is  it  since  a  crowd  of  our  most  respectable  citizens — 
men  of  common-sense,  mark  you — none  of  your  vague  dreamers,  but  sub- 
stantial men,  familiar  with  business,  and  eloquent  in  bank  notes — stood 
laughing  and  jeering  on  a  Philadelphia  wharf,  while  crazy  John  Fitch  at- 
tempted to  propel  a  boat  without  sails  ;  merely  by  the  aid  of  paddles  and 
steam  ?  Poor  John  Fitch,  how  they  pitied  him,  these  men  of  Matter-of- 
Fact !  He  starved  to  death,  while  his  "  Folly"  that  is  the  boat  intended 
to  be  propelled  by  the  agency  of  paddles  and  steam — rotted  snugly  in 
some  muddy  hole,  near  Kensington.  And  now,  the  steamboat  which  was 
John  Fitch's  folly,  has  become  Robert  Fulton's  fame  ;  and  the  steam  car, 
and  Magnetic  Telegraph,  which  in  Franklin's  day,  would  have  scared  a 
whole  church  of '  common  sense'  men  into  spasms,  are  admitted  to  exist, 
even  by  the  most  respectable  newspapers. 

'  The  Thing,  we  deem  Improbable,  my  friend,  is  many  a  time  just  the 
thing,  about  which  we  know  precisely — nothing.    Everything  great  in 


534 


PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  OR, 


science,  history  or  religion,  has  at  first  view  been  the  most  improbable 
thing  in  the  world.  Paul  was  mad  when  he  spoke  of  Brotherhood  among 
men  ;  Galileo  mad  wen  he  said  the  earth  moved  round  the  sun  ;  Wash- 
ington mad  when  he  said  that  he  could  defeat  the  tyranny  of  an  Anointed 
King. 

'  The  rule  that  is  good  in  history,  science  and  religion,  is  also  true  in 
literature.  Mad  Paradise  Lost — mad  Childe  Harold— mad  Zanone  !  All 
three  mad  at  the  time  of  their  publication,  and  their  respective  authors, 
worthy  of  nothing  so  much  as  a  dark  cell,  with  shower  baths  and  straight 
jackets  innumerable. 

*  If  works  like  these  have  been  called  "  mad  !"  and  their  authors  assail- 
ed as  either  harmless  idiots  or  malignant  demoniacs,  how  shall  a  poor  au- 
thor like  your  humble  friend,  ever  summon  Courage,  to  write — to  print  a 
book  like  Paul  Ardenheim  ? 

'  Now  I  do  not  claim  for  the  present  work,  that  the  incidents,  which  it 
embodies,  occurred  precisely,  at  the  time  and  place,  as  they  are  set  down ; 
but  I  do  claim  for  these  incidents,  that  they  are  true  to  the  springs  of  human 
action — true  to  the  secret  history  of  the  heart  of  man — true  to  the  feelings, 
which  sway  mankind,  in  all  ages  and  in  every  clime. 

'At  the  same  time  these  incidents  are  utterly  improbable.  They  are 
altogether  impossible.  The  author,  grown  reckless  of  the  critical  stilleto, 
out-herods — herod,  out-horrors — horror  ;  he  prides  himself  on  having 
written  "  the  mmt  improbable  book  in  the  world.'1'' 

'  The  critics  who  expect  to  '  use  up'  (in  our  own  choice  language)  this 
book  and  its  author,  will  find  all  their  thunder  stolen  before  hand.  Their 
withering  sarcasms  about  "Monk  Lewis,"  "Mrs.  Radcliffe,"  "works  of 
the  French  school,"  etc.  etc.  will  not  avail  them  in  this  case.  They  will 
have  to  invent  a  new  vocabulary  of  slang,  and  become  familiar,  with  some- 
thing more  venemous  even  than  their  souls,  in  order  to  abuse  a  book? 
which  stares  them  in  the  face,  with  its  motto — "the  most  improbable 

BOOK  IN  THE  WORLD." 

4  The  very  title  of  the  work  will  appal  the  writings  of  the  small  papers, 
and  shock  into  spasms,  the  portentous  thugs  of  the  Magazines.  "  The 
Monk  of  the  Wissahikon  !"  "  This  author  is  at  his  old  tricks  again  ;  he 
wrote  the  Monks  of  Monk-Hall,  and  now  he  writes  the  Monk  of  Wissa- 
hikon. Will  he  never  have  done  with  monks  1  Who  ever  heard  of  Monks 
on  the  Wissahikon,  or  if  you  come  to  that,  "what  is  the  Wissahikon,  but 
an  obscure  mill-stream,  hidden  somewhere  among  big  hills  ?  Will  he 
never  have  done  with  horrors  ?  He  wrote  the  Legends  of  the  Revolution — 
we  all  know  that  the  Revolution  is  past  and  gone — our  people  demand 
something  more  practical  than  this  worn-out  matter  of  the  Revolution,  and 
— all  that  sort  o'  thing.  He  crowds  his  pages  with  horror ;  skeletons  ; 
corpses;  daggers;  skulls;  Monk  Lewis  is  a  fool  to  him  in  the  horrible, 
and  he  distances  poor  Mrs.  Radcliffe  in  the  way  of  the  monstrous.  Be- 


THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 


535 


sides  his  works  smack  of  the  French  School ;  a  school  made  infamous  by 
the  licentious  George  Sand,  the  profligate  Sue,  and  the  unnatural  Dumas. 
Why  does  he  not  attempt  something  in  a  quiet  vein,— founded  on  fact — 
touched  with  unpretending  pathos,  and  pointing  to  some  impressive  moral, 
such  as  the  immaculate  purity  of  our  banking  institutions,  or  the  spotless 
integrity  of  the  Corporation  which  built  Girard  College,  or  the  myste" 
rious  query,  what  ever  became  of  the  Funds  of  the  United  States  Bank?" 

'There,  my  friend,  you  have  it — a  critique  ready  mad  and  at  the  ser- 
vice of  any  gentleman,  connected  with  the  critical  department  of  our  litera- 
ture. Or,  should  your  taste,  incline  to  those  delectable  productions,  which 

adorn  the  '  literary'  papers,  under  the  head  of  '  burlesque  of  Mr.  '  £ 

style?  let  me  give  you  an  idea,  how  this  peculiar  kind  of  literature  is 
elaborated.  Take  the  purest  thought  that  ever  flowed  from  an  author's 
pen — break  it  into  short  paragraphs — array  it  in  all  the  garniture  of  big 
capitals  and  marks  of  admiration — slime  it  well,  with  some  choice  obsce- 
nity, and  your  work  is  done.  The  author  is  burlesqued.  He  is  put 
down.  These  writers  of  'burlesques'  are  terrible  fellows.  I  remember 
one  of  the  select  band,  who  made  capital  fun  out  of  the  Death  Scene  of 
Nathan  Hale  ;  he  grew  quite  merry  over  the  dying  struggles  of  the  Mar- 
tyr and  Hero,  and  by  a  clever  piece  of  wit,  turned  the  last  sigh,  which 
came  from  his  livid  lips,  into  a  laughable  joke?  The  peculiar  wit  of  these 
gentlemen  is  never  so  vivacious,  as  when  it  capers  about,  over  the  bones 
of  the  dead — it  is  quite  boisterous,  in  its  laughter,  when  it  mounts  the 
Altar  of  Religion,  and  slavers  its  obscenity  there.  It  can  take  up  any 
passage  of  the  Bible,  and  with  its  free,  lively  vein,  write  Divinity  into  a 
jest,  and  mock  the  last  hour  of  the  Dying  Redeemer,  with  a  freedom  of 
manner  and  an  elevation  of  tone,  worthy  of  the  thief,  who  scoffed  his  God, 
and — died  blaspheming.  Indeed  things  like  this,  have  been  done,  in  more 
than  one  case  by  "  able  critics" — "  withering  burlesque  writers,"  precisely 
of  the  same  class,  as  the  respectable  gentlemen  who  figure  in  certain  of  our 
newspapers  and  magazines.' 

'  But  why  mention  these  persons,'  I  hear  you  exclaim — '  Do  you  expect 
to  impress  their  natures,  with  any  such  ideas,  as  the  purity  of  woman; 
the  good  in  the  heart  of  universal  man ;  the  divine  lesson  of  Brotherhood, 
as  displayed  in  the  life  of  the  Redeemer?' 

'  No,  my  friend.  I  expect  nothing  of  the  kind.  And  on  reflection  I  am 
sorry  that  I  have  blotted  this  page,  with  even  the  mention  of  these  "  com- 
mon stabbers." — But  now,  let  me  turn  to  you,  my  friend,  and  thank  you 
for  your  generous  sympathy  with  my  labors.  I  have  never  seen  your 
fac  have  never  taken  you  by  the  hand.  And  yet,  as  I  sit  in  the  loneli- 
ness of  my  room,  writing  these  closing  words,  I  cannot, — even  if  I  would 
—repress  the  throb  that  pulsates  at.  my  heart,  when  I  reflect,  that  you  are 
my  friend.  A  friend  neither  bought  with  money,  nor  won  by  baseness ; 
but  gathered  to  my  heart,  by  pages  like  these,  which  I  now  send  forth  to 


536     PAUL  ARDENHEIM  ;  THE  MONK  OF  THE  WISSAHIKON. 

you.  Pages,  written  amid  various  circumstances;  amid  the  clamor  of 
slander,  or  by  4  the  light  of  a  candle  held  in  the  skeleton  hand  of  Poverty? 
but  which  still  I  hope,  are  true  to  the  best  instincts  of  humanity. — And 
so,  our  familiar  talk  is  over,  and  I  once  more  glance  into  the  pages  of  the 
Ancient  Record,  where  I  chronicled,  an  incident  of  some  interest  in  the 
life  of  the  Monk  of  Wissahikon  : — 

"  One  night,  in  a  miserable  garret,  hidden  away  in  some  obscure  fau- 
bourg of  the  great  city  of  Paris,  there  sat  a  lonely  student,  keeping  the 
vigil  of  his  thought,  and  even  as  he  gazed  with  his  vacant  eyes,  upon  the 
flame  of  the  expiring  candle,  tracing  absently  upon  a  sheet  of  paper,  his 
unknown  name,  *  Maximilien  Robespierre.''  And  even  as  he  sat  there, 
so  sad  and  lonely,  with  half-formed  thought,  glimmering  in  his  vacant 
glance,  there  appeared  to  him  a  stranger,  whose  face  was  impressed  with 
a  Sorrow  unutterable.  And  he  took  the  lonely  youth  by  the  hand,  and 
told  him  of  his  Future,  and  pointed  him  to  a  path,  which  covered  with 
blood,  and  strewn  with  crowns  and  thornes,  ended  at  the  foot  of  the  Guil- 
lotine. 'This  path  you  will  walk — yonder  King  you  will  kill — and  at 
last  your  stern  mission  accomplished,  you  will  die  abhorred  upon  your 
own  Guillotine.'  And  the  Boy-Student  trembled  at  the  prophecy  of  the 
unknown,  who  passed  from  the  place  ere  his  last  word,  had  ceased  to 
echo,  but  left  the  record  of  his  name,  beneath  the  name  already  written. 
The  names  together  read  thus — «  Maximilien  Robespierre  *  *  *  »  Paul 
Ardemheim,'  " 


THE  END. 


V 


>  "5 


